


When the Sun Rises

by panda_shi



Series: Rebirth [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes-centric, Communication Failure, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Extremis, Extremis Tony Stark, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hearing Voices, Heavy Angst, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Lack of Communication, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Porn with Feelings, Possible Character Death, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Protectiveness, References to Depression, Stephen Strange - Freeform, Tearjerker, Tissue Warning, Tony Angst, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, Vision (MCU)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-09-17 16:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 100,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9332648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panda_shi/pseuds/panda_shi
Summary: A WinterIron story set in theRebirthuniverse. A deviation/alternative continuation toYesterdaysThis story will contain hints of StOny.“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”― Victor Hugo, Les MisérablesAt some point, everyone makes the decision on who they want to be and which fight is worth fighting for. But what they don't tell you is that the hardest part comes after making the choice; they do not tell you that when you fight for something for yourself, sticking through the fight till the very end is the true measure of your endurance.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am my own BETA. I am sure that despite 100 reads, I have missed a lot of DUH-SO-OBVIOUS typos.
> 
> This story deviates from Bucky's last line in [Yesterdays - Chapter 7](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8671087/chapters/21127025). This is an alternative ending/story, that should, ideally, lead to WinterIron. Please note that there still may be some heavy StOny hints.
> 
> THIS IS VERY UNPLANNED! VERY!

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”   
― [ **Victor Hugo**](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13661.Victor_Hugo), [ **Les Misérables**](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3208463)

It is believed that isolation is a curse.

When you spend most of your life isolated from the rest of the world, frozen in a haze that is beyond your control, when your existence is narrowed down to merely being a tool to fuel a greater agenda, to attain a bigger goals, when you are robbed from your sense of self, when you have _nothing_ , you learn to become _nothing_. You learn to see no sunrises because the moment you had fallen, that had been your sunset. You learn to navigate in the dark, not because you want to, but because _you have to_ , because you do not have a choice. When you are isolated, you are reduced to something that is less of a man just as the rest of you and your sanity disappears with each ticking second.

And when you are forced to step out of isolation – because it’s your basic right to walk in the light like the rest of mankind - when you stand under the heat of the scorching sun so bright that you are blinded by it, that even when you shut your eyes, you still see how bright the stars are behind your eyelids, you are _overwhelmed_. And when you are overwhelmed, you want nothing more but to crawl back into the comforting confines of the shadows because for a long time, that had been you; it had been all you knew. Because when you live in the dark for too long, when you finally stand in the wake of the light, in all its warmth that feels like a gentle caress against your cheek, the ghost of a brush against your lips, the feel of warm steady hands repairing your prosthetic arm, you find that you do not even have the slightest clue how to walk under the sun.

You are still frozen.

So Bucky leaves the party and separates himself from the noise, the joy, the celebration. He isolates himself from the laughter and the echoes of a man whose words still rings in his ears and feels like a fiery vice grip  around his chest that had long forgotten how to breathe, long forgotten how to move under all that ice. He retreats into the quieter corners of the garden, dress shoes clacking against the cobblestone path, squishing against the wet grass as he moves further and further away from it all.

And Bucky knows that he moves away because when you stand long enough in the light, the ice melts. When you stand in the light long enough, you remember what it is like to breathe, what it feels like to make your own choices. You remember what it means to _have_ a _self,_ to be your own man with no chain of words acting like a leash around your neck holding you back and robbing you of what little memory you had left. When you are in the light, you _see_ things you don’t remember seeing before. And when you feel the first touches of warmth against your chest from a man who is always trying to be brave, when this man tries _so hard_ to forgive you, to _see_ the self that you had thought had been taken away from you, that _man_ who had died with the fall – you cannot look away. You cannot step away. There is nothing that man cannot reach, because his hands had reached the part of you under the ice, the softest bits that isn't frozen solid yet. So much so that, even when you hide in the shadowy shade of the red maple tree, far, far away from all of them, far from the warmth of the sun - your sun- you hope to find comfort in your isolation. You hope that by stepping away, by shading yourself from that brightness, you can pretend that you've killed the sun by not seeing it, by closing your eyes and blindfolding yourself, shutting out the brightness completely in hopes that by pretending it doesn't exist, it lies dead.

Bucky feels his back _dig_ into the bark of the tree, feels his jacket crumple as he pulls the gloves off his hands, running a hand through his hair and tugging the small ponytail free. He reaches up to tug the tie free too, and tries to suck in as many breaths as he can, hoping that the cool air would keep the ice intact in his chest.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring out at the glimmer of the stars on the surface of the lake. He can still hear the distant celebration, now reduced to nothing but a hum in the quiet embrace of night. Bucky thinks that is what everything around him should be like, a distant hum with him, the monster, miles and miles away, where his blood soaked hands cannot soil anything, cannot destroy anything, and cannot harm anything. He thinks that by staying this far, by playing his part right, he does right by the ghost of the memory of himself, that he had done what James Buchanan Barnes would have done _years_ ago, when he had been _truly_ alive.

Because _that_ Bucky would have said, _go and try, go all the way, Stevie. If you’re not gonna go all the damn way, don’t bother starting. It doesn’t matter what it can mean, if it means you lose your title, your name, your pride, your ego, if it means losing more sleep, and losing your appetite for weeks. It doesn’t even matter if it means feeling scared and small and cold, and_   _ **helpless**_ , _or if it means mockery. It’s gonna isolate you either way and that is a gift because then you’re focused, and you know where to look , you'll realize there’s only ever one way to go. Everything else will measure your endurance, how much you really want to try. And if you really want it, you’ll do it, against the worst of the odds and all the repeated rejections. And it will be better than anything you’ve ever done, you’ve ever felt – because if you love him, if you truly love him, you’re going go all the way, even if it takes a lifetime – you will be alone with the gods and nights will flame the fire. It’s worth fighting for it because honestly, it’s the only good fight there is. It's what I would do._

And not once, would _that_ Bucky had hoped, no matter how small, that Steve wouldn’t go ahead and do just that. That Bucky would not have hoped for any other outcome than Steve’s own happiness, because Stevie deserves it, he _needs it_. That Bucky, the _good_ Bucky, would not have had to leave the party out, would not be standing by himself the way Bucky is right now out of fear of knowing the inevitable. He would wait instead, in the party, with everyone else, would have danced with his friends. He would go ahead and have a good time.

That Bucky had not been so much of a coward.

Because _that_ Bucky had been _kind._

(I’m not that Bucky anymore. I haven’t been for a long, long time. And to be honest, I don’t think I can be.)

And therein lies the dilemma.

Bucky turns to look at the golden glow of the celebration in the distance, closes his eyes and listens to the thump of the music bass. He should head back or everyone will start worrying or worst, they may just send a search party after him. For a moment, Bucky pushes himself off the tree, takes a step into the glow of the harbor lamppost and sucks in a shaky breath, holding it in his chest. He doesn’t think going back will serve him any other purpose other than feel less kind and more of a monster. Going back and meeting Steve’s gaze would remind him of the privileges he – in all honesty – does not deserve.  

Because monsters like him do not belong in the light.

They don’t deserve to feel it.

And the only kindness monsters like him is capable of showing is by walking away.

So when Bucky walks away from it all and doesn’t look back, he tells himself that he is doing this to allow things to fall into place. He is doing this to give Steve a chance to do what’s right, to fight for what he wants, to grab it in his hands and never let go. He tells himself he’s doing this because if Steve doesn’t, _you know you’d want to, you almost did_. He tells himself: _keep walking soldier_ , because if he doesn’t walk away, if he _stays_ , he doesn’t think he can take it anymore if Steve would look at him with _that_ look on his face, the one that sees festering nest of envious monsters that had found its way like a growing parasite in between the permanent beating block of ice under Bucky’s ribcage. If he stays, Bucky doesn't trust himself to not be able to not look at Tony.

And he doesn’t want to be at the receiving end of that look. Not from Steve. Never from Stevie who had fought so hard to fight for him, to _save_ him.

(You don’t want to be looked at like that again because it reminds you of brown eyes that had looked at you under the dim lights of the military bunker in Siberia, like you had been the biggest monster there is. That look reminds you of the hurt of having something taken away from you because it had been out of your control.

But not this time. This time, you can choose to walk away. This time, you have the _option_.

You don’t want to be that monster anymore, even if it is what you are.)

Bucky doesn’t know how long he walks for.

And he doesn’t care. It's better this way.

Because isolation is not a curse.  
  
It is your saving grace.

 

TBC

  
  



	2. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Will keep editing here and there whenever I can.
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> NOTE: THIS IS AN ALTERNATIVE ENDING. THERE WILL BE MINOR TWEAKS IN ORDER FOR THE PAIRING TO WORK! Story continues from Bucky's last dialogue line from Yesterdays.  
>   
> 
> Another note that this takes place almost 5.5 years post Civil War in the Rebirth Universe.

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”   
― [ **Victor Hugo**](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13661.Victor_Hugo), [ **Les Misérables**](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3208463)

When Tony opens his eyes, all he sees is the expanse of the Big Apple from the Stark Industries New York office, shrouded in the blue of the ocean. Tony does not feel the ground beneath his feet, nor does he have more than a hundred yards worth of visibility. His lungs doesn’t move, frozen in place as he stares at the small dots of light below and beyond, fading as the current of the water surrounding him grows stronger, disturbs everything else around it. Drowning, Tony thinks, feels a little like floating in space, where sound doesn’t travel and everything is just quiet, save for the faint hum that Tony knows is more related to his own thoughts and memories than what goes on around him. Drowning, Tony thinks, feels _peaceful_.

It is peaceful because here, he cannot hear the Chitauri, how their jaws snap open and the shrieks rings like loud warning sirens from their throats. Here, he cannot hear the sounds of the explosion that manages to flow into the open wormhole that you fall from. Here, he cannot hear the menacing metallic clanking of evil’s footsteps, he cannot hear him sing, he cannot hear his mocking words, nor can he see the crimson blaze of his eyes. It is peaceful here because Tony knows alone, and while only he remains buoyant in the stretch of his favorite office – it’s the glass windows, you see, they’re the widest ones you own out of all your properties and offices – the rest of the world around him remains grounded.

(It doesn’t matter whether you are asleep or not. You are always buoyant after spending a year disconnected from your past, without your roots. Funny, that, huh?)

Tony likes it here, despite its confines and the pressure he feels weighing him down, but not quite grounding him. When he is floating like this, he doesn’t feel the weight of the world. When he floats like this, he can tilt his head back and lie back down, close his eyes and pretend that nothing else matter, surrender to the feel of displacement, and to hell with it all.

Tony thinks that death by drowning is something he can deal with, if this quiet and hush is what he will get. The world will continue to move without him, and he doesn’t have to respond to anything. From far, _far_ away, Tony can hear the very _faint_ rush of traffic and somewhere in the building, there is a phone ringing. It doesn’t matter though, because this quiet, he _wants this_. Tony really is okay with this.

Except when the need for air surfaces.

They say drowning is painless.

What they don’t tell you is when you’re done holding your breath, when your lungs forcibly tries to break out of the prison of your ribcage to _breathe_ , they forget to mention the part that you go through apnea. They forget to tell you, that as you start to thrash and struggle and you can’t tell which way is up or which is down, where is the ceiling and where is the carpet, or the table, or the windows or the walls, you forget that you should be holding your breath, and then you _breathe_.

Except you don’t because the water is filling your lungs now, and you reach up to claw at your throat, thrashing left and right and unable to stop the involuntary motion of _breathing_ , teeth gritting and eyes scrunched tight – they never tell you that this part _hurts_ . And then your body reacts and tries to defend itself – what do they call it, oh right, _laryngospasm_ – by sealing your air tube and instead of feeling the _burn_ in your lungs, you feel the water fill your stomach, all the way to the top until you’re torn between wanting to _vomit_ and wanting to _inhale_ and wanting to _hold_ your breath. And then you’re sinking lower and lower, until you feel what you think is the ground. You feel yourself bounce off it, buoyancy adjusting as the exhaustion settles and the need to vomit and breathe and hold your breath eventually fades.

They don’t tell you that up until the last moment, your body will still fight with everything it has.

So just before your eyes roll back and all the fight leaves your limbs and feet, look at the ground beneath you, Tony. Look at it because you’re not floating.

You’re falling.

(You’re not afraid. Because you know _real_ fear and this – well, this is no less than you deserve. You can’t fear what’s coming for you, not when you expect it.)

Tony feels his mouth part as the ocean around him shifts and he feels his back being sucked against the ceiling, like the force of a bowstring being cocked. He faintly hears the water rush and the tide _move_ , and like a giant wave about to crash, Tony feels the _slam_ of the pressure against his back, hears something in his spine _snap_ just as he connects with the floor with a solid impact, feels the _crushing_ sensation center in his chest where his heart is, compressing, compressing, and compressing, until he bounces off from the floor from the force of the impact.

And his heart stops.

And Tony is bolting off the surface of his desk, one hand coming up to his chest, gripping and crumpling his shirt and tie, filling the space of the empty office with his heavy and panicked breaths that sound deafening to his ears, his ears ringing _loudly_ , melodically, almost mockingly that it leaves Tony reeling, limbs forcing themselves off the table, off the chair, knees locking until his ankles tangle and he falls against his side. The force of his fall sends a shock through him, hard enough to shake off the feeling of drowning, because he can feel the floor, he can see the dim lights permeating from underneath the door of his darkened office, he can see the wheels of his swivel chair, the fibers of his office rug and piles and the stack of folders and proposals he had dumped haphazardly over his desk earlier during the day after having looked through them and making his changes.

He is not against the ceiling.

He is on the ground.

(But not entirely grounded.)

Tony feels his throat constrict just once before it opens up and he sucks in a slow and shaky breath, filling his starved and drowned lungs with air-conditioned air that smell and tastes faintly of pine. The ringing in his ear doesn’t stop though, even as Tony rolls over to lie on his back, spreading his arms and feeling the cool glass against his left knuckle and icy marble against his right. It rings and rings and rings.

Until he realizes it his phone that’s actually ringing and not something at the back of his head.

(Ultron’s asleep – shhhhh, don’t make a noise, or he’ll wake up. Quick, get the phone! Quick, _Anthony_ , quick!)

Tony parts his lips to suck in one breath – _just one more –_ before he steps into the familiar whiteness of the world wide network, feeling comforted in Extremis embrace. It’s Natasha who is calling, insistent. She had been trying to reach him for the past half an hour.

“Yeah?” Tony says, speaking out loud and _forcing_ his throat to work. He comes off sounding like his throat had been ripped out and shoved back in. He sounds _terrible_.

“Tony.” Natasha’s voice that sounds hushed, like she is trying to mask her concern, cuts through the haze. Tony looks at the call log in the sea of white, and sees that Natasha had been trying to reach him for the past two hours; he had missed a lot of calls.

“Talk to Daddy.” Tony says, and braces himself for something he doesn’t want to here – meetings, discussions, another party backing out, another catastrophe in their Middle East and Asian belt; the rebels had been amassing their in insurmountable amounts lately and Tony _cannot_ deal with it _now_ , he just _cannot_.

“Steve’s team is back. It’s _not good_.” Tony can hear the slow intake of a shaky breath. “It’s really not good, Tony.”

Her tone and how she does not say more than that those few words are enough to make Tony sit up from the floor and bring a hand to his forehead, the same hand dropping down against his eye and applying pressure. “I can be in DC in about thirty.” Tony cannot stop the _sigh_ from leaving his lips; this is the fifth time in the span of forty-eight hours he had to back and forth between New York and Washington; he had figured out months ago that taking the jet had not been time efficient. Iron Man, as it is, had turned into his own private transportation system. Tony did not have a lot of options, between balancing his duties at Stark Industries and SHIELD. With his erratic schedule, Tony doesn’t even remember the last time he had stepped foot into his own home.

It is part of the reason why the Stark Industries New York office is being downscaled and moved over to DC.

And that is another thorn in his side; that entire project is not moving as fast as it should be.

“I’ll meet you at the med-bay.”

Natasha’s call ends then and Tony counts to three before he pushes himself up to his feet, picking up his jacket on the way. He had not gone home in over four days, changing and showering in his office’s when he can. Ever since Rhodey’s wedding, with him and Captain Marvel in their respective short leave of absence to get their new lives in order, Tony and Natasha had to mitigate all their resources to fill in the very large absence. Tony is aware of the last mission SHIELD and the Taskforce had collaborated with; SHIELD had sent fifteen ground agents and a flight crew support team to follow Captain America’s team and their Middle East and North Africa designated team into the borders of Yemen, where the Rebellion had recently been amassing and tearing havoc through the region, fuelling a political agenda that had nothing to do with Yemen’s cooperation with the Accords. Tony can think of a hundred scenario that can go wrong with that mission but puts his thoughts on halt as he pushes the emergency door open and steps out into the crisp rooftop air, where the Iron Man suits encases him and he blasts off into the sky.

If there is one thing Tony had learnt over the course of ‘coming back’ after the clusterfuck of a magic spell, it is that there is not use in worrying about something you have no control over _now_ ; wait till you get there and then get your hands dirty.

It’s almost like therapy.

And so for thirty minutes, while flying into what Tony knows will likely be worth _months_ off his life, Tony does not think, does not reach out into the networks to find out just what he is walking into. Instead, the playlist _blares_ in his ears, everything from ACDC, to Metallica to Deff Leppard and Megadeth, just to start off. The long and loud guitar solos – for a very brief moment – distracts Tony from his permanent headache, and the emotional baggage – god, the fucking emotional baggage of it all. Tony doesn’t know what is worst: the fact that he remembers the brief _quiet_ – Tony thinks of it as a soft distant hum, much like servers blinking and rerouting data behind closed doors - post Extremis 2.0 what with the roots of _all_ his issues _gone_ , **_or_ ** the fact that he _liked_ having nothing but that distant hum. Because he can deal with a constant distant hum, he had been dealing with far lot worse than that for _decades_ , especially in the last five years alone. But the ‘quiet’ had been a blessing and Tony _misses_ it, misses the goddamn focus and disconnect that had allowed him to make calculated decision at faster rates without hesitation.

Tony knows he should be afraid of wanting that disconnect.

(Because when you got no strings, you got no limits – tsk, tsk, Anthony, did you forget?)

The view of the rebuilt Triskelion looms in the distance. This is where Tony veers east to where the Taskforce’s HQ is and upon Friday sending his clearance details to the watch tower, Tony veers off to the left upon receiving his clearance to land. He touches down in the parking lot, suit retracting as he walks. He doesn’t rush, he doesn’t run, nor does he give Natasha heads up that he had arrived. Instead, he takes the long way around to the main entrance and thinks he shouldn’t be surprised to find Natasha pacing, talking furiously into the ear piece while reading data off the tablet in her arm.

Tony only gets less than ten seconds before Natasha spots him and abruptly ends the call, with no concern over who had been in the other line.

She says nothing, simply tilts her head and walks down the hallway. They walk through several doors and take an elevator several floors down the critical care unit, each door and each change of floor number increasing the dread in Tony’s stomach and the pace of his heart.

Until he finds himself standing before an expanse of glass, with unconscious bodies, _so many bodies_ lined up one after the other, swathed in white, IV lines hanging, oxygen masks, and even as far as a dialysis machine – Tony feels _sick_ . His stomach _twists_ and convulses and he finds himself holding his breath. And from the reflection on the glass, Tony can see the ghost of himself, face as white as the sheets covering up the Taskforce and SHIELD agents beyond the glass.

“How many died?” Tony asks, and when Natasha tries to dissuade him, he turns to look at her with _fire_ in his eyes. “How _many_ , Natasha?”

Natasha looks at the glass, chin up despite the fact that she swallows to clear her throat. “Eleven. Eight are in a coma. Six are in critical care assuming they make it through.” She pauses and Tony hears the hesitation. “Scott and Barnes are in critical care. Clint – Clint is back in the OR.” This time, the curse the rolls out of Tony’s lips is _vicious_. “Our base in Damam is gone. I also received word a few hours ago that our bases in Aswan and Erbil was under attack. Our team from Egypt and Kuwait are on site, and Desert Storm just confirmed that they are on Iraqi-soil and are cooperating. Dust and Gilgamesh, though are in critical care in our facility in Dubai.”

Tony turns to look back at the glass and feels the room spin.  “Vision?”

“He’s fine.” Natasha gives a small albeit shaky smile at that.

Of course he’s fine, Tony thinks the question had been rather stupid to begin with.

“Sam?” Tony asks and Natasha looks to her left and Tony counts at least eight beds before he sees what he thinks is Sam’s figure. “Steve?”

“He’s in the recovery room.” Natasha _sighs_ . “He _almost_ didn’t make it. Had it not been for Barnes –“

Tony doesn’t wait for her to finish her sentence and walks away from the glass, from her, her words, and pushes past the double swinging doors to step into the room. The nurses on duty stop him, telling him he is not authorized to be present. Tony usually doesn’t make it a conscious thing to abuse his current position as SHIELD director, not to people who are simply doing their jobs, at least. But all sense of niceties had left him that night and he finds himself giving the nurses on duty a _look_ that makes them take a subconscious step back, apologies spilling from their mouths. Tony doesn’t pay them any attention as he walks past them towards Sam’s bed, where he sees him bandages wrapped around his head and covering one eye, two IV lines attached for both antibiotics and a blood-pack. The dressing is also wrapped around his chest, stretching over one shoulder and the length of his right arm. The right side of Sam’s face is swollen, puffed and ugly and _god, what the hell happened_?

Tony doesn’t even know what’s under the blankets.

He doesn’t want to know.

He finds himself gripping the foot of the bedframe hard, knuckles going white and all of sudden he feels like he’s drowning again, the pressure of the dark ocean descending upon him. It feels like he’s sinking to the bottom of the floor, like he is being pulled by an invisible force that he can’t quite control. If this is how Sam looks like now, Tony cannot even begin to imagine in what shape Scott and Clint are in, even the Winter Soldier. He doesn’t want to think of all the families of the dead, or all of those waiting for be on the clear, to survive the next forty eight hours.

(And when you suck in a breath, you can smell the blood and the metal and antiseptic and that noxiously ghost scent of hundreds of white lilies that you hate so much, but your mother had adored.)

Tony doesn’t know when he had moved, or when he had stepped out of the corridor, but he sees a team wheeling a gurney out of the OR, and a familiar face lying unconscious on the bed. Tony doesn’t remember seeing Bucky looking so _white_ and purple at the same time. He isn’t even supposed to _look_ like that because he’s the goddamn Winter Soldier. Tony finds himself following the team up to an isolated recovery room, where they move him to the bed and start setting up his respirator. He catches a glimpse of the metal arm, somehow still attached. It is enough to make him step into the room as soon as the commotion of setting him up is done and pulls the cover back to see _mangled_ metal, crushed and dented in ways that Tony knows is going to _hurt_. The arm isn’t offline, not completely anyway. Trying to remove the arm now is almost impossible without the right tools. He pulls out a pen from his jacket and carefully lifts one of the loose plates around Bucky’s s shoulder, and is hit by a wave of nausea when he sees how the infection had leaked into the wiring and synthetic nerve endings.

The doctor is saying something about not being able get the arm off, something about wirings sparking and how their technicians are currently not one site to assist. Tony doesn’t know how he is even going to manage this on top of the thunderstorm that is already brewing in the horizon. The backlash of two bases under attack and one being completed eradicated is going to spark political outrage and public fear. Building another arm isn’t the issue. It’s trying to remove _this one_ that’s going to be one hell of a _bitch_ ; Tony doesn’t even know where he will find the _time_ to handle _everything_.

Tony walks with the doctor outside and asks him to move Bucky to a bigger room once he’s more stable. He also asks him to keep him pumped up in so much painkillers that he’d think he’s on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean, just until Tony can get Helen Cho on site and his tools. The message is sent even before he steps out of the room. The sooner they get the arm off before Bucky wakes, the _better_.

Natasha looks at him warily, looking far too old for her age. “Tony… they’re going to be okay.”

“They have to be.” Tony answers, and doesn’t stop Natasha when she steps into his space and wraps arms around him. Tony doesn’t pretend that the gesture doesn’t give him comfort, and presses a hand to her back and the side of her head, burying his face against her shoulder. "They have to be…” Tony repeats and somehow, he finds it hard to believe they’ll fully recover from _this_.

\--

Bucky is pushing himself off the ground, clamoring over aged and broken limestone structure that had caved in from the blast. The taste of ash and blood and sand is thick in his tongue, as he leaps over the debris and feels his right leg spasm under him, torn between remaining damaged and useless and healing rapidly. It slows him down and he remembers saying something into the communicator, remembers telling them that the structure isn’t going to hold, that they need to get out _now_ , just as he knocks a rebel out of the way, throwing them out of the window and into the sandy ground below – incapacitating but hopefully, not killing.

Bucky remembers how the radio had been dead.

But what he also remembers is neutralizing a party of six and how one of them had a remote detonator. He remembers seeing the flash of red dials, remembers running down so many stone steps until he gets to ground level and sees the Falcon swoop in through one of the windows, kicking a rebel in the face, Captain America and Hawkeye leaping in after him and smashing through the rest of the rebels. Bucky remembers running towards them, yelling at them to get out, _get out now the place is gonna fucking blow, get outgetoutgetout--_

Bucky remembers grabbing Steve by the collar of his suit and _flinging_ him out of the window like he had been weightless. He remembers grabbing Falcon by his boot as he swoops over him and throwing him too, just as he turns and grabs Clint by the shoulder, dragging him with him.

And then he’s flying upwards, and for a moment, Bucky sees the golden sands stretching and stretching, as far as the eye can see with a sky so blue above, and then he’s falling through smoke and rubble.

He hits the ground _hard_ and something _lands_ on his metal, and something pierces through his arm and seconds later something _tears_ through his right side and then Bucky feels the _scream_ tear through him, on and on and _on_ – _oh god, stopstopstopstopstoppleasepleasepleaseplease!_

There are hands on him, holding him down and he looks up and sees the blinding white light of the sun in the sky, except it’s too white, it’s too bright and he’s trying to roll off the debris, trying to make his goddamn arm _move_ , except moving it sends very sharp and very hot surges of _pain_ through his shoulder and all the way up to his head. He tries to reach for it, tries to grab whatever it is that’s making his arm _hurt_ and _burn_ and fuckfuckfuckfuck –

There is a brief moment of clarity, razor sharp and thin, where something inside Bucky’s head kicks in and he’s suddenly _lashing_ out. He feels his arm connect with something on his right as he _pushes_ that away and then he’s reaching up with a _growl_ to his left, teeth _grinding_ until he feels something soft around hand. And in that very brief moment of clarity, he sees a familiar face, sees familiar brown eyes roll back.

He only gets a moment to recognize the face and barely a nanosecond to register the _horror_ of just _who_ he is trying to _strangle_ , before he feels something connect with his head and then he’s staring at the disappearing brightness high above, just as the _fear_ kicks in.

\--

Tony is _staring_ at Bruce, watching as the green in his eyes and fist start to gradually subside. From across the room, Helen is against the wall, unmoving and frozen. It takes a full five seconds before she and Natasha who bursts into the room, rushes to get Tony off the ground, because that is when Tony realizes that his throat isn’t working properly and he can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

The panic kicks in with a sharp flare in the middle of his chest as he tries to get to his feet and fails, that sharp flare spreading like wildfire all over his body, seizing him by the lungs. He knows what this is, he knows what’s happening to him and he feels Bruce and Natasha hoist him off the ground and sits him on a chair just as Helen rolls in with an oxygen tank, strapping it around his head, Bruce kneeling between his legs and holding the mask in place. Tony wants to wrench mask off but then Natasha’s forearm is planted firmly against Tony, shoulder to shoulder, _holding_ him in place as she talks to him, tone even, calm, measured. She tells him to _breathe_ , counts with him, one, two, three, four, five – her hand is cool against his forehead and Tony realizes that his forehead is damp with sweat from the sudden surge of an unforeseen panic attack. He watches Natasha’s lips move, hears her speak through the stillness of the bottom of the ocean in his ears, until burn starts to ebb away, like the pull of the tide, pulling back, back, back.

And then Tony _exhales_.

Natasha’s weight lingers for a few more seconds before she releases him and Tony reaches up to hold the mask in place  for a few more seconds, gulping a few more breaths hungrily before he slides it off his face, letting it drop on the floor.

And then the anger _hits._

“What the _fuck!”_ He _snaps_ , getting on his feet shakily, turning to the cowering medical team, Helen and Bruce. “I said keep him down, there is no way he can live through the pain of having the wires and infection continuously digging into his nerve – “

“We did! But his body is metabolizing the drug at a _faster_ rate than our previous recorded calculation, we thought –” Helen cuts through.

“Then _triple_ it!” Tony _roars_.

“Tony,” Bruce cuts in, standing between him and Helen. “What we’re giving him is enough to knock out an elephant for _a_ whole day.”

“Well,” Tony says, sucking in another breath. “Clearly, he is _tougher_ than a fucking _elephant!_ Steady stream, until I’m done – I don’t care if he’s high as a fucking kite, or if he slips into a coma for the next two days, that arm comes off _today_ . Just –“ Tony feels the flare in his chest again and _curses_ as he walks out of the room, tugging the gloves off his hand and pushing his tinted glasses up his forehead, leaving it perch over hair that really, _really_ needs a trim.

Tony walks down the hall and into the next recovery ward. He sees Steve wheeling his way out of his room and that makes Tony stop in the middle of the hallway to see Steve in a goddamn wheelchair. It is _reminder_ of that time when Tony had thought the world had been too close to losing its iconic hero, all those years ago when Steve had been incapacitated by a gunshot to the chest. Seeing him now, on a wheelchair again makes Tony straighten as if nitrogen had been injected into his spine, causing him to freeze and stare at the pallid pallor, the dark circles around his eyes that aren’t so dark anymore compared to fifty-two hours ago when Tony had arrived in DC.

Steve looks good, he’s mobile, he’s _better_.

(Then why are you still _afraid_?)

“Tony,” Steve says, voice _raspy_ like it’s made of sandpaper. “I heard – I heard the noise – gosh, Tony, _are_ _you_ _allright?”_

Tony finds himself looking down at Steve who is suddenly just a good feet away from him, leaning a little forward in his wheelchair to _peer_ up at Tony. And Tony sees his reflection in those blue-green eyes, sees how he looks like utter shit in his t-shirt and jeans, sees how the clean shave serves him no purpose of looking any better – no time to groom, no time to go home, no time to take of himself, no time to stop, no time, no time, no time – except to perhaps make his cheekbones look a little more prominent now that his trademark goatee isn’t there to give balance.

How he looks on the outside doesn’t even compare to how he feels on the inside. Tony feels the sudden urge to just close his eyes and just let go, to fall and pass out and not give a flying _fuck_ if the world burns.

Steve had once told him, just before their friendship had dissolved to sawdust in the wind, that sometimes he wishes that when he sees something bad, he can look away. Tony finds himself in that brief memory and tells himself, _me too_.

The smile that _twitches_ over Tony’s face is strained at best, just like the headache threatening to yank his scalp backwards with the persisting weight of it at the base of his skull.

“Always.” Tony _lies_ and then turns around to head back to fix the mess of an arm he cannot afford to lose more time on.

\--

Gruelling hours later when most of the arm lies in a plastic container on the ground, Tony is left with repairing what’s left of the socket on Bucky’s shoulder. Helen had left an hour ago with Bruce and the rest of the medical team leaving Tony to wrap up his work with a nurse coming every thirty minutes to record changes in Bucky’s stats. Tony’s ears are plugged with wireless earphones, the noise around him muted in favor of Queen. With less bodies and limbs hovering around, Tony feels a bit more like himself tinkering with fine wires and metal. There is something comforting about the weight of a screwdriver and pliers in his hand.

Tony gets a sudden epiphany after _hours_ of scrambling around with SHIELD and all her resources to _contain_ the political explosion the disaster in Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Egypt and Iraq had caused. Sitting here now, under the white glow of the halogen light, with the dawn peeking over the horizon, doing what he loves best and possibly the only thing that grounds him now – it’s nice. Tony likes the quiet, Tony likes the snipping sound the wire makes when he cuts it, likes the sound of metal against metal, the complex network of circuits that powers a piece of machinery _so strong_ – he really should not take too much pleasure in this.

It is, after all, _someone_ ’s arm – or well, _arm socket_.

Tony flicks his gaze up and _almost_ jerks back at the sight of Bucky _watching_ him, eyes open in very thin slivers, crystal blue crisp under the flutter of dark lashes. Tony’s fingers freezes where they are, poised over the socket as he gauges Bucky’s current conscious state, ready to call the suit if it meant protecting himself from another strangling session in case Bucky erupts in a blind surge of panic.

But Bucky’s lips twitches instead, cracks up in what Tony thinks is a ghost of smile, before his eyebrows knit and his eyes roll back – the nausea of the anesthesia must be kicking in and Tony is quick to start moving his tools off the makeshift work table he had to prop up and attach to the bed. Tony is about to get up and put distance between himself and bed when he sees Bucky’s lips move. It takes a moment for Tony to realize that he cannot hear the words because he is still listening to Queen. The earphones come out and Tony is greeted by _silence_ and the sound of Bucky groaning softly.

“Are you gonna puke?” Tony asks, blinking a few times. Bucky makes a noise that sounds like a no, but that quickly changes to _something_ that sounds like a _yes_ and Tony _sighs_ . “There shouldn’t be anything in you that’s worth puking out. Are you _sure_ ?” The alarming throaty _noise_ gets Tony moving, as he quickly grabs a small plastic container in the far corner of the room, just as Bucky lurches up with whatever he had in him to sit upright and empty stomach acid into the container that Tony manages to shove under his mouth. Tony is reminded of Nevada _all over again_ , listening to Bucky heave whatever fluid he had left in him. Tony is bemused by memory and for a moment, he convinces himself that he’s just an engineering fixing a piece of tech that happens to be attached to a human being. Tony thinks, with everything that’s happening right now, he’d rather be a nobody than a somebody, SHIELD and Stark Industries be damned; the thought is fleeting and winks out like a candle being snuffed.

And to think, this time around, Tony didn’t have donuts or a nice fat turkey sandwich.

Bucky gives another violent _heave_ and Tony awkwardly reaches forward and tentatively presses a hand on his back, rubbing - what he assumes and aims to be - soothing circles.

There is an overwhelming sense of pity at the sight of a Super-Soldier-badass be reduced to the shaking leaf that he is now, swathed in bandages and hooked onto wires and tubes. Tony thinks – and not for the first time – that like this, there is a glimpse of the Bucky Barnes before Hydra. This _man_ before him whose eyes are now bloodshot and tearing from the heave, hair greasy and hanging like strips of leather over stubble shadowed face, is but a _man_ like this. It is so easy to forget that Super Soldiers are human too, because one tends to overlook the fact that even a bullet to the head or the heart can completely incapacitate him.

“All right, all right, there, there, jeez you’re so dramatic.” Tony says, places a steady hand on Bucky’s good shoulder once the heaving stops and Bucky looks like all the energy had left him in an instant. Tony allows him to sink back against the pillow and puts the container far, far away. Tony notices a few blood clots dotting the sticky expulsion in the container and says nothing as he sanitizes his hands from the dispenser behind Bucky’s bed frame. “Feel better?” Bucky doesn’t answer but his eyes closes and his eyebrows knit. “Want anything? Beer? Donuts? A giant turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce?”

Tony _almost_ grins when he sees Bucky’s nose wrinkle in _disgust_.

“Hilarious,” Bucky _croaks_ out, and turns his head to his left where Tony returns to his seat and scoots closer, bringing his tools back. Tony freezes midway when he sees Bucky’s eyes suddenly widen and he he sits up, wincing and _hissing_. Tony knows it’s the still healing wounds around his middle and Tony doesn’t have the patience to deal with the bullshit right now. “Clint! And Sam!”

“Are fine -- hey, hey --” Tony places a hand on Bucky’s good shoulder and steadies him. “They’re _fine_. They’re in the critical ward. Unlike you who is up and about, they’re barely awake for more than a minute at a time. Regular people and all.”

“Steve--”

“Is also fine. He upgraded from wheel chair to crutches yesterday.” Tony holds a hand up to silence the other questions. “They’re _fine_ , James. Can I wrap up here or are you gonna go nuts on me again?” Tony asks, and watches as Bucky _stares_ at him, trying to sit up straighter on the bed, alarm and that pitying kicked-puppy-and-then-stepped on look coming on his face. And Tony thinks, _good grief_ , because clearly, Bucky and Steve are two peas in fricking pod. Tony _almost_ laughs.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, and had it not sounded so genuine Tony would have had the chuckle rolling off his tongue.

Tony doesn’t say anything about it, opting to remain silent as he slips his tinted glasses back on, magnifies the delicate circuit in the socket and gets back to work. He can feel Bucky’s gaze on him as he works on the few minor details; really, Tony knows he doesn’t have to do _this_ . Giving the Taskforce his design of the arm and leaving their team of engineers to figure it out by themselves is still an option. But just like Hammer had tried to replicate his Iron Man suit for his own benefit, Tony doesn’t think the Taskforce would have  had enough to _time_ in an emergency like this to sit and figure out the arm from scratch. Tony admits to having some sort of attachment to the limb; after the Iron Man suit, he is actually very proud of his work on this one. But time, apparently, is no longer on his side. The Winter Soldier is an asset to the Taskforce and having him out of commission due to an “injury” puts a dent in the team’s performance; Tony is aware that Bucky can fight just fine with just one arm and still be just as deadly, but the principle of it all is enough to give pause for thought.

Tony doesn’t think he can keep doing these repairs anymore.

He doesn’t think he can find time.

Three days in DC and working from where he is had taken a toll on him. Tony is ready to just slump in a corner and pass out if he had that option. A glance at the time tells him that he had about five hours to get his shit together and if he’s lucky, he can sneak in an hour nap in there somewhere.

Tony seriously starts to think about forking his designs of Bucky’s arm to the Taskforce.

“Here’s a thought; I only ever see you when you are critically injured and or missing an arm. Or you’re in formal even dressed to the nines.” Tony flicks his gaze up and finds that Bucky looks away when their gazes meet. “Didn’t see you at the wedding after the first dance. Not your thing?”

“I didn’t mind it so much back in the day.” Bucky says, gazing at ceiling. “Things are different now.”

Tony doesn’t miss the melancholy note in those words.

“Well, you and Cap missed Sam getting on stage and getting the crowd wild on DJ Kool’s let me clear my throat. Classy.” Tony doesn’t miss the blink and confused look on Bucky’s face, and he almost _laughs_ at the dumb expression. For a man who keeps to himself and maintains distance, Bucky sure knows how to wear the what-the-fuck face well. “Let me guess, you’re more of a Duke Elligton kind of guy?”

“Steve left?” Bucky sounds _confused._

“Well, _yeah_.” Tony raises both his eyebrows, without taking his gaze off the circuitry at his fingertips. “Went looking for you --”

“I thought he was with you. After the speech.”

Tony _pauses_ at that, and sets his tools down to _look_ at the man on the bed because really, he had only been making small talk for the sakes of small talk because a part of moving forward is engaging with the object of your bitterness in something that doesn’t fall under violence or avoidance. Tony _knows_ that as long as he is who he is, avoiding his former teammates and Bucky is _impossible._ Tony knows this because he had tried for three years.

“No.” Tony answers and turns his attention back to the arm. “Clint said he left to look for you. Did you even get to try the cake? Cake was _great_ . When this thing blows the _fuck_ over, I’m going hunt Carol down and ask for the caterer.” Tony looks up when Bucky says nothing and finds him staring at the ceiling blankly, lips parted and eyebrows knitted.

“I’m sure it was.” Bucky says and closes his eyes. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

Tony looks away then but says nothing; he doesn’t want to say anything or give voice to the confusion in his head. He had wondered weeks ago why Bucky and Steve had just upped and vanished but had chalked it up on crowds. A part of him wishes he had picked another day to attempt small talk, preferably ten years from now because now.

“I won’t have an arm for you ready for another two weeks. At least.” Tony says, almost a good hour later when he starts wrapping up the repairs on the socket. “I’d rather you have these outer parts replaced. Just to be on the safe side. And --”

“You don’t have to do this.” Bucky suddenly says. “Maybe if you showed someone else how to fix the arm or something --”

“No.” Tony says and finds that it comes out a little too sharp. “I won’t --”

“Stark, you are needed in more places other than my bedside and fixing this fuck up of a -”

“It’s my _work.”_ Tony _snaps_ and watches as that silences Bucky almost immediately. “It is my decision if I want to waste time fixing your goddamn arm or not. Two weeks may sound long to be without one but I’m _trying here_ . I am _fucking trying_ \--”

“Stark, I didn’t -- it’s not like that --”

“ _Oh?_ ” Tony _looks_ at him and god he is at his wits’ end. He doesn’t even know where the energy to get pissed off at something so _trivial_ comes from, it’s not even worth burning whatever he had left in him to stay on his feet. Tony knows he is being petty, he knows he’s being a brat.

(No, you just don’t want to be not _needed_.)

“I’d _prefer_ if it was you.” Bucky says, with clarity that is enough that it deflates the anger out of Tony in seconds. “But you and I both know that you are needed elsewhere. I didn’t mean for it to sound ungrateful.”

“I thought about letting this go.” Tony admits and starts to pack up his tools. “The truth is _I_ need this. This. Fixing things. With my hands.” Tony gestures at the arm lying in the container on the floor and the socket on Bucky’s arm. “And you are an asset to the Taskforce. My coming here to fix you myself is the only opportunity I get these days to do what I’m good at. You are my excuse for that. Everything else happens through here.” Tony taps his head and _scoffs_ , slamming his tool box with a little more force than necessary. “But you’re right though. I should let someone else take over. Do you have someone in mind?”

Bucky shrugs, voice dropping down. “Can’t think of anyone. There’s just you.”

“Congratulations then.” Tony says, getting up and picking up the boxes to stack them on a cart by the door. “You’re stuck with one of the world’s busiest man.”

Bucky shrugs again, and gives Tony a bit of a wry smile that doesn’t quite fully form. “Doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Yeah well, don’t come crying to me when you’re bored and craving a mission.” Tony returns to his seat and brings a hand to his face, pressing his hands to his face, applying pressure on his eyelids. He feels the heat behind his eyelids the longer he keeps it closed and finds that he doesn’t want to open his eyes anymore. He wants to tilt his head back, keep the heels of his hands against his eyes and just stay there.

“You okay?”

“Always.” Tony answers and drops his hands to his lap, blinking his eyes.

“You’re so full of shit.” Bucky says and Tony sees the concern there, warm in the depths of the icy crystal irises; the Winter Soldier feeling sorry for him is something Tony’s does not want.

“Expensive shit.” Tony corrects and that gets a twitch around the corner of Bucky’s lip; this time Tony doesn’t mind the silence as much as he had earlier. “You’re gonna be okay. You’re all gonna be okay.”

Bucky is looking at his fingers, at where the glass and shards of metal had been picked off when he had been transferred from their facility in Dubai. The cuts are almost healed and probably will be gone by the morning, like it had never happened in the first place.

“I got you, don’t I?” Bucky says and the soft words makes Tony look up a little too sharply from where he had been looking at his hands .”To fix me up?”

Tony finds no fault in the words. He can’t challenge it because doing so would make him a hypocrite. He had done nothing but protect those who are important to him. He had spared no effort and they all _know_ this. He can’t say he _trusts_ them, not yet, it’s too fast too soon, but he can at least tolerate working with them. Working with them keeps them at bay, and after everything that had happened, everything after Nepal and the spell and the feeds he had seen of himself with each and everyone of them, Tony doesn’t think that he has the emotional capacity right now to deal with _any_ of it. He doesn’t want to revisit what had happened, he doesn’t want to think of what had happened, not his younger self or the civil war.

Because the truth is, he is _drowning_ in his responsibilities and if he had to pick what direction to look at, Tony would prefer to look straight ahead rather than downwards at the present or over his shoulder in the past.

Seeing his past self had proven to him that there is _nothing_ you can do to change the past.

(You’re tired. For real this time -- bone deep and worn that you don’t have it in you to even think of yourself and your own demons. Maybe, that’s a good thing.)

“And that’s good enough for you?” Tony asks, swallowing a little thickly around the lump that had suddenly formed. When Bucky nods with nothing more than short glance up at him, Tony thinks he sees honesty and frankness in the response and with it the vulnerability. “Well, my work is done here. Ten bucks says you change your mind the moment Cap walks into this room.” Tony says, standing up from the chair and rotating his head, feeling his neck pop, as he heads for the cart by the door.

“I’m _not_ Steve.” Bucky says and Tony hears the conviction behind it.

“We’ll see…” Tony says and doesn’t look over his shoulder when he wheels his cart out and shuts the door behind him.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a basic outline of a plan but no idea of how to get there. I have a feeling this will be longer than Rebirth. 
> 
> Halp me, good lord. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and for giving this story a chance once more!


	3. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Will keep editing here and there whenever I can.
> 
> NOTE: THIS IS AN ALTERNATIVE ENDING. THERE WILL BE MINOR TWEAKS IN ORDER FOR THE PAIRING TO WORK! Story continues from Bucky's last dialogue line from Yesterdays.  
>  

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”   
― [ **Victor Hugo**](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13661.Victor_Hugo), [ **Les Misérables**](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3208463)

The waiting is always the longest.

It takes six days for Bucky to be able to get out of bed and free from the catheter, another five to move on to the use of a wheelchair with the aid of a nurse and then another three before he can get around with crutches on his own. Steve’s bruises and cuts are almost gone by the time Bucky is able to limp around the ward and the recovery room on a  _ single _ crutch. He cannot say that the same goes for Sam, Clint and Scott. Sam had been the one to wake up first, and two days later, Scott had regained consciousness, talking in mostly slurred syllables and staring at them like they are the apple of his eye, utterly hopeless and high as a kite.

Clint had been in the clear and had woken up a few times in so much pain that it had been a mercy to keep him doused in painkillers.

The four of them had been relocated to the upper floors, where visitors can come and go a little more openly and beyond the visiting hours at the critical care ward. Steve had been discharged a day before the move, but chooses to spend the nights in the room with what remains of his team.

Bucky does not have the heart to tell him to go home.

It is on a Tuesday, three days into their stay in their new ward when Clint gets his scheduled video call from his kids; it is also the same day that that Bucky cannot stand to be around the cluster of people in the room, feeling suffocated and claustrophobic that he limps his way out of the ward into the connecting stretch of the garden outside, finds himself a bench and sits down like the shaking like old man he  _ really _ is from within and feeling the entire century and some years seeping into his joints and bones, like a phantom weight that he cannot peel off himself. It pulls down on his shoulders when he hunches forward with his only elbow on his knees, hand carding through his longer and drier hair and bunching them up into a clenched fist. Bucky knows that he and Steve are lucky that a little over two weeks after their disastrous mission, they are already on their feet; Bucky doesn't even need a crutch to get around anymore. And while they only have to wait for the myriad of bruises and a few swellings here and there to fade, Bucky knows that the same cannot be said for Sam, Scott and Clint.

What takes them only weeks to recover will take the others months and you don't just bounce back up from something like that and walk away scat-free. Bucky had heard Sam bolt up from his sleep with a gasp far too many times. He had seen how Scott chooses to sit on a chair instead of lie on his bed because he probably still dreams of being catapulted to the sky by concrete, sand and the fire. Bucky thinks, that like him, Scott can probably still taste the sand and ash and blood sticking together like wet cement up in the roof of his mouth, dry and rough and clogging up his throat with the taste of roasting human flesh -- Bucky thinks he is lucky that his new and shiny nightmare involves something  _ recent _ for a change, something that had been his doing, his miscalculation, something he had actively chosen to be a part of. For a change it it does not involve any of the of the tools, or ghost hands or the icy cold cyro-chamber or the feel of electricity coursing through his spine and setting his nerves on fire when Hydra had forcibly wiped his mind clean over and over again all those years ago. Bucky thinks he is lucky that he doesn't hear the screams, the begging for mercy, the numerous fires or the sight of a bullet going through cradles and small heads, the cries for help or the stench of blood or the look of fear in the eyes of people who doesn't know why the Winter Soldier had come for them, that he doesn't feel the crush of bones giving away under his fist, or doesn't feel the softness of the throat constricting under his grip.

This time, Bucky doesn't mind the smell of his own blood, or the sand, or the smoke, or even the burning flesh; he doesn’t want to remember the smell of cradles or the distinct aftershave or sweat of his victims. And most of all, he doesn’t  _ want _ to remember Chanel No. 5, because he can taste the sweetness at the back of his throat like poison every single time he thinks of Tony.

(And you’re doing that a lot, these days, aren’t you? While waiting for your new arm?)

Bucky will take what little pause he can from the endless nightmare that trails behind him, sins as heavy as the phantom chains wrapped tight around his ankles, dragging him backwards and slowing him down even when it his conscious choice to move forward in a future that he so desperately wants to be worthy of.

But it is hard, isn't it, being special as you watch those you have come to consider important lag behind while you and Steve continue to be men out of time. It is hard to move forward in a future that isn't really yours but  _ theirs _ . It is always hard to watch those close to you struggle, watch them justify why half their face is swathed in white and why daddy is really sick now because the bad guys were really strong, or how daddy is going to get better, don't you worry, I am okay, I promise. Several times during their struggle, you wish nothing more but to take their place, to alleviate some of their burden instead of stand there hopelessly as they struggle through the healing process that is never going to be a hundred percent. And it feels a little like robbing them of their future, which is their right because this is their time, not yours. You should have died in the war efforts during the forties. And wars, as you so very intimately know, take a lot out of a person and right now, you're in the middle of one that isn't really any different from the war against a tyrant you had been a part of all those lifetimes ago.

Except this time, you're faster and a lot stronger than you had been then.

And despite that, you are still severely, hilariously, still outgunned.

What chances do  _ you _ have against unnatural abilities, when the men, the women or the children that rebel against you control electric currents, or water or the grains of the earth or are as indestructible as Captain America’s shield, when they are faster than you, when their weapons are their own hands or the supernatural, are a lot better than the weapons you are able to strap to your tactical gear?

You’re a pipsqueak compared to  _ them _ aren’t you?

Bucky feels his breath slowly leave him in a measured exhale, just as he looks up and finds Steve moving to sit next to him, footsteps quiet and measured, like he’s walking on eggshells. Bucky says nothing about the gesture, pretends that he doesn’t see the hesitation when Steve parts his lips to say something but no words leave his mouth. It takes two tries before Steve asks:

“What did we miss?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky says, and reaches up with his hand to feel the metal stump that is covered with taped dressing. That question had crossed his mind several times since he had woken up and he can’t pin point an exact moment. “We were outnumbered.”

“I don’t see a light at the end of the tunnel, Buck. One day, as we try to contain and save innocent lives, we’re going to lose everyone. They won’t be as lucky.” Steve is looking at his boots.

“It’s not going to change.” Bucky says, jaded and soft. The slow phantom pricking on his shoulder stump makes him reach up for it again, squeezing the metal plates. “The fight has gotten out of hand. It’s a losing battle – we may look like a unified front but people – people are always going to be divided.”

“So just keep swinging, huh?” Bucky shrugs in response and he watches the small smile twitch up in one corner of Steve’s lips. The smile fades though when Steve’s gaze drops to his shoulder. “Any news from Tony?”

Bucky had to stop himself from shrugging and instead, drops his hand down from his shoulder to his knee. “He said he’d have something for me in at least two weeks. But he probably has his hands full right now.” Bucky watches the blades of the grass under his feet sway with the gentle mid-morning breeze, and thinks back to the day Tony had worked on his shoulder socket.

“I’ve been watching the news. I don’t know if he’s going to be able to find time to work on anything other than this PR nightmare. Is there no other way? We may have to be thrown back into active duty soon.”

Bucky looks up to meet Steve’s gaze and hesitates, debating on mincing words as opposed to just being frank. The lines appearing between Steve’s eyebrows makes him sigh slowly. Bucky can tell him that he had offered Tony a way out, had offered him to stop being a burden on his already ridiculously packed schedule. Bucky can tell Steve that Tony too, had been quite selfish with wanting to keep his work close to him, even if he had expressed willingness to share the designs. He debates being transparent, and holds Steve’s gaze as the words tumble out of his mouth, “I don’t trust anyone else with that arm. He can take all the time he needs. I don’t mind waiting.”

And it might as well have been a lie by omission. Bucky doesn’t tell Steve that Tony wants to keep doing this – whatever  _ this _ is – because he  _ needs _ it. Bucky doesn’t tell Steve that he doesn’t mind filling that void of need in Tony’s life, that he actually  _ wants _ to for reasons he cannot even begin to explain let alone comprehend, that he wants to be something Tony  _ needs _ . Bucky thinks it’s his guilty conscience, he thinks it’s whatever that’s left of the Soldier clinging towards a skilled mechanic and handler because the arm had been quite magnificent, hadn’t it? Ten times lighter, with no delayed response, with feedback on texture and feel that had far surpassed Hydra’s design – if Bucky had allowed it, deluding himself into thinking that it had been his real arm would have been a lot easier compared to when he had the older one.

“You sure about that?” Steve asks.

So Bucky counters, “Is it that going to be a problem?”

“No.” Steve’s answer is quick and almost defensive. “Of course not. It’s  _ Tony _ . He doesn’t cut corners. He doesn’t spare effort, either. He – “

“I  _ know _ .” Bucky answers and watches as Steve’s justifying words come to a complete halt. “I know, Steve.”

And Bucky watches as frown deepens and Steve directs his gaze away once more, because Steve must have seen it, like all those times he had a lifetime ago whenever Bucky gets attached to something, or  _ someone _ . He watches as the jaw locks tight and tension winds in Steve’s shoulders, knots upon knots piling high until he hunches forward, elbows on his knees. And like the breath Steve sucks in, the tension melts away, schooled behind the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s a look that Bucky cannot understand, because while he understands body language, relating to the emotional impact of it is something that isn’t quite in his grasp. Not yet anyway. Because that’s what Hydra does to their soldiers – they take the humane parts of you and try to sear it until it’s burnt to a crisp. Except what they do not understand is that there are some things you just cannot completely remove from a person, because while Hydra liked to play God, they still have not figured out how to suppress the humanity in a person, not unless their subjects are willing to give it up willingly. They sure as hell knew how to forcibly induce trauma that brought about emotional blackouts though, and maybe that had been the reason why Bucky’s trip to chair had been so frequent compared to the others.

(Because a part of you, however small and miniscule, always resisted, always rebelled, always  _ wondered _ , even when the majority of your mind and body had been pliant under their hands and ideals. And that little part of you had made all the difference.)

Bucky thinks his thoughts are far too sentimental, far too soft and hopeful – imagine that, him still being humane enough to crave emotion, to  _ feel _ and  _ repent _ , to stop the constant bloodshed. And sometimes, he wonders whose thoughts are predominantly circling his head, whether it is Bucky Barnes or the Soldier. It’s harder to choose which pants to wear when he’s around Steve.

Just like how it’s hard, in that very moment, to form words.

It’s been hard since the Nepal-fiasco, as Clint calls it, and all those days in Stark manor with the kid.

Bucky isn’t sure how to look at Steve without feeling like he is a disappointment. Bucky isn’t even sure how to be around Steve without feeling that he’s overstepping his boundaries, that he’s tapping into things that aren’t his. His thoughts doesn’t get far when he feels his phone vibrate in his hospital gown pocket, and when Bucky pulls it out and brings it to his ear to listen to the voice message, he listens to Tony  _ ramble _ about delays and not being able to make it to DC anytime soon and  _ that I’m gonna need you to work with me here so either meet me halfway at SI New York or I send your arm with Vision, your call. _

“Tony?” Steve asks.

“My arm is ready.” Bucky responds, tucking the phone away and feeling something like relief course through his veins. “A little over two weeks – not bad, huh?”

Steve makes an amused sound as he reaches over and gives Bucky’s shoulder a warm grip, encouraging and pleasant.

And like many moments that Bucky isn’t sure is a memory from a lifetime ago, or if he’s noticing things for the first time, he doesn’t miss the slight disappointed lines that are suddenly visible between Steve’s eyebrows and the corner of his eyes.

(Like that time when he heard you were being shipped to England after receiving his third or was it the fourth 4F – remember?)

\--

When Tony starts to get strong whiffs of the noxiously sweet scent of lilies in the most unexpected moments, he had realized then that panic had started to slowly flow into his veins, like a dam slowly coming alive after a long while of being non-operational. He doesn’t know if it is his saving grace that he only gets whiffs of it when he is alone; sometimes it is faint, sometimes strong as if there is a bouquet of it shoved under his nose. They smell the strongest when he wakes up from whenever he dozes off without his control, and very faint, almost like a quick breeze whenever he sits alone and gets a quiet moment to himself. And therein lies the crux of the problem, because Tony notices how the scents gets stronger with time, he notices how it starts to tickle his throat and make his stomach turn. It is like waiting for the blow to come except you have no idea how to gauge  _ when _ the hit is actually going to connect.

The waiting is always the hardest.

And Tony tells himself he’s ready, he’s prepared to face whatever  _ shit _ his mind decides to catapult forward, that he’ll deal with it as they come because he’s had his year of clarity, a year of pause which had set the groundwork to know where one reality starts and where one ends. He tells himself to find comfort in this, to be confident, to not be afraid because it can’t hurt you if it’s not real.

(Except it does and it  _ will _ .)

He tells himself he is  _ fine. _

_ Always. _

What he doesn’t tell himself is that he _ can _ actually take a pause from all the work and  _ rest.  _ He doesn’t tell himself to look beyond at the options available to delegate tasks at Stark Industries. He doesn’t even tell himself that it is okay to  _ not _ work for an hour or two, that you can go home, shut the door, and work on the suits with your hands. He doesn’t tell himself that his position is so high up the ranks that he  _ can _ take a day off, or half a day off. He doesn’t tell himself to  _ stop _ working because when you stop working, when you sit  _ alone _ , with nothing but the silence around you that is just another reminder of  _ all _ the things you’ve lost, that’s when it all starts.

(It will start when you are at your most vulnerable.)

But working, and staying busy, staying occupied, will not give Tony that _pause_ for things to really catch up, because that’s what it is, isn’t it? He’s working physically and exhausting Extremis to the point that his brain cannot keep up with function, that it is only during these _pauses_ that everything rises to the surface. It is during these pauses that Tony’s subconscious gets the opportunity to catch up. Bruce had said it best some time ago when Tony had found the time after Rhodey’s wedding to revisit the tests and discussion that had been kept under lock and key; after all, you do not go ahead disturbing the balance of someone who had just chosen to wipe their memory clean. Tony can still remember what Bruce had said that evening, three days after the reception, when Tony had brought it up, casual, nonchalant, justified his question as a security measure to brace himself and Bruce had only responded with saying how Extremis, while _great,_ isn’t exactly that perfect _because,_ _Tony,_ _even if Extremis allows you to process info at light speed, your brain isn’t a machine. There’s far too many information coming in and not enough time to process, not because Extremis limits_ ** _you_** _but because_ ** _you_** _physically and biologically can’t. You consciously pick what you need and the rest are dumped as storage; my guess is that all that extra info began to sublimate into your unconscious mind as a subconscious reaction to better cope with the direct technological link you now possess with your armor and every wireless socket there is in the globe. Tony, you’re taking in more than you can handle, your thought process is still_ ** _human_** _. At some point, it’s going to come out and in your case, maybe it’s coming out in the ugliest forms possible from_ ** _your_** _perspective._

Tony remembers making a joke about taking up yoga full time. He had even tried to ignore how Bruce’s jargon had hit too close to home with Charles’ almost cryptic way of talking all those years ago when Tony had reached out to him to discuss possible educational collaboration for young registered superheroes.

And when Bruce had said that he really isn’t that kind of doctor, that Tony is better off consulting with someone who is  _ truly _ an expert on the field, Tony had shut down the idea all together. He had entertained asking Strange very,  _ very _ briefly, if only because he  _ knows _ Strange from the very brief moments he had met him in galas and conferences where Stark Industries medical-technology division had coincided with medical conferences across the globe. Bruce had gone far in even hinting that a man with knowledge in neurology may (but not completely) have better directional skills than someone like him, that because they have  _ history _ , it may be something he wants to consider.

It is after Rhodey leaves the country with Carol that Tony decides that the knowledge of a fully functional Extremis reaching anyone else is far too great than a few mish-mash of fake realities his brain might cough up.

He makes the conscious decision then to  _ can _ it and had left it at that.

But now, when the smell of lilies slowly gets more frequent in ways he cannot  _ fully _ predict, Tony wonders if maybe canning it had not been one of his greatest ideas.

(Because you’re afraid; you’re so, so,  _ so _ fucking afraid and you have every right to be. You are your worst enemy.)

It doesn’t help that he had just attended four funeral services in the past week, all of them belonging to SHIELD agents who had not made it through the disastrous mission over two weeks ago. It doesn’t help that the body count coming home, or what had been left of those bodies anyway, are still being flown back in small plastic containers with nothing more than a barcode as identification. Tony is not unable to unsee the grief stricken expressions of several family members. Even when he reaches up to rub his eyes and apply pressure, or even after he drains the remnants of his scotch bottle and crosses the room to open his second one for the night.

As director, all those deaths are on him.

So when Bucky finally makes it past his office doors, dressed down in casuals and a baseball cap over his head, four days after Tony had sent him a message about his arm, Tony gives a bit of a mental hurrah because it means the pause is over and it’s back to business.

“The hell took you so long?” Tony grumbles, setting the open bottle down and making his way across the room to pick up a large metal case that’s been sitting there since his arrival in New York. Tony is reminded how he had left Stark Towers since his arrival four days ago.

“Got a bit held up at the runway -- is this a bad time?” Bucky’s voice is soft, a little raspy, and when Tony looks up from where he places the case on his office table, he sees what he thinks is concern on the Winter Soldier’s face, lines deep between his browns and chin slightly wrinkled from the frown that is tugging at the stubbled face.

Tony cannot stop the amusement from coming to his face as he turns his attention back to the case and pops it open with a soft mechanical hiss.

“Just in time. So.” Tony steps aside a little bit, make enough room for Bucky to join him by the table to take a look at the content of the case. “The star is back, blue as you requested. Old Glory Blue, to be specific, the same paintjob on Cap’s shield. Used a different alloy this time, so it should be about seven percent lighter than its predecessor. Plated it with adamantium – very indestructible – was a challenge considering it is quite finicky outside of hot temperatures.” Tony starts to roll his sleeves up and tugs his tie a little more to undo the second button of his shirt, turning away to unpack the tools he’ll need. “Took a few trials and errors. Worked out, so there’s a very,  _ very _ thin coating of it. It should reinforce it. But I wouldn’t go around stopping a bomb blast with just the arm, hmm?”

“It looks  _ real _ good.” Bucky says, looking up from the arm and meeting Tony’s gaze.

And for a moment, Tony thinks he sees something more than gratitude in the quiet ice-blue gaze that holds him rooted on the spot, his hand poised over a set of screwdrivers. Something about that  _ focus _ makes Tony swallow past  _ something _ that doesn’t taste like fear but closer to nervousness, fuelling his heart and making it thump a little more insistently against his ribcage.

The focus Bucky directs at him is a little rapturous.

“Don’t say anything till it’s on you. I can work here,” Tony tugs one of the chairs towards the corner of the table to use it as leverage. “Get settled.”

Bucky is quiet as he shrugs off his jacket, carefully setting it on a semi-folded pile on the floor, followed by his t-shirt. Tony sees that while most of the lighter bruises had faded, Bucky’s back and side isn’t completely scat-free of swellings and marks of their failed mission. A large and tender red and purple bruise on his back stretches out like some sort of distorted world map, a few edges green and slightly yellow, making old small white scars stand out, something he must have already had from before the serum. It stretches and fans on to Bucky’s left side where while his bones are already healed, the bruises still hasn’t faded completely. From where he stands, Tony can see welt like scars and raised skin, some deep and some raised, bullet entry and exit wounds, no doubt, maybe even a knife wound. Tony thinks, that despite everything, Bucky at least looks  _ a lot _ better than he had weeks ago, and that at least the lacerations had closed up, barely even leaving a scar.

Tony catches himself staring when he looks up to find Bucky watching him, holding his gaze with his own piercing one in place.

“It doesn’t hurt.” Bucky says, with a bit of a shrug, an attempt to comfort, or a way to deflect concern – Tony isn’t sure. But he doesn’t miss the slight twitch of Bucky’s lip when he turns to sit on the chair and carefully starts to peel the dressing off the stump.

“Helen tells me that they’ve successfully regenerated the tissue and nerve endings under there. When was that, by the way?”

“About a week ago.” Bucky answers, setting the dressing aside and exposing the thankfully no longer puss-and-infection laden socket. “It didn’t take very long. It’s a little itchy though with the sensation back and all.”

Tony hums and put his glasses on, adjusting the magnification to focus on the socket and starts peeling off the panels he had brought replacements for. Tony doesn’t talk much after that, fully immersing himself in carefully replacing what needs to be replaced. He is halfway through the restoration when Bucky lets out a slow and measured exhale.

Tony’s hand immediately halt in their motions and he counts to five, gaze flicking up from Bucky’s shoulder to the tense line of his jaw.

“You okay there, old man?” Tony asks, tools poised and not quite making a move to touch anything on the socket. “I’m halfway done. You wanna take a break?”

“Yeah – no, I mean, I’m all right. You can continue…” Bucky says, and carefully adjusts his posture on the chair, propping his other arm on the armrest.

Tony hums and returns back to his work. “You can talk, you know? I don’t mind the chatter. This isn’t Hydra.”

“No, it isn’t.” Bucky answers, and a brief glance over the rim of his glasses tells Tony that Bucky is staring at the New York skyline beyond the glass. “I’m not an old man.”

“You’re over a hundred years old. You  _ are _ an old man.” Tony mutters and it is almost as if heavens had made it its personal mission to embarrass him, Tony hears his stomach grumble once. It had been short and small sound, and Tony pointedly ignores the rumbling sensation in his gut, another reminder of how off kilter he is with his schedule. He can feel Bucky’s gaze on him and when the grumble sounds of again, this time, it is longer and louder.

“ _ I’m _ the old man?” Bucky asks, mirth glistening over the clear blue of his eyes.

Tony feels the words still in his mouth, because it is like staring at the crisp and clear surfaces of Lake Geneva, under the breezy spring Swiss skies. He remembers those trips to Switzerland during the spring; Maria had been quite fond of the annual Tulip Festival. Tony remembers being five and walking down the flower banks of Parc de l’Indépendance, fingers clutching at his mother’s hand as he admired the rows and rows of gold. And if Maria’s schedule had not allowed it, Tony remember still flying there anyway, past the festival dates and walking down the gardens of Château de Vullierens. His mother would bring how lilies with her and decorate the house with them. Those trips were what he had called Mama-and-Tony’s-secret-trips, something that Howard had not been a part of and something Tony had always looked forward to, just as must as their visit to the Maldives. The lake, during those visits had always been so  _ clear _ , like stretch of glowing sapphires.   

Tony blinks at the memory, and watches as Bucky’s pupils dilate, as the focus returns with a vengeance and once more, not for the first time, Tony feels like he’s floating in an ocean, displaced and groundless.

“Not another jibe from you, Barnes. We common folk cannot compete with a Super Soldier’s endurance and stamina.” Tony huffs, blinking a few times behind his glasses and tearing his gaze away, feeling just a little warm under the collar from embarrassment.

“Nothing about you falls under common folk, Stark. Come on,” Bucky murmurs.

“Oh right, yeah, I forgot.” Tony’s tone is dry, as he tucks in the last of the folded wiring in place and starts to close up the exposed circuitry.

“Hey,” Bucky shifts, forcing Tony to stop working yet again and look up to meet the concerned gaze. “I don’t mean that in a bad way.”

“No offense taken,” Tony says, holding his hand up and gestures for Bucky to return back to his previous posture so he can finish. “Honestly, you should see the tabloids these days. I doubt you or  _ anyone _ for that matter, can get worse than them.”

“None of it is true, though.” Bucky sounds sure of himself.

“Some of it are.” Tony shrugs.

“Doesn’t mean it’s right.” Bucky mutters, and falls quiet. Tony doesn’t realize his fingers had paused in their motions, and that he’s watching the frown return to the face of the man who is always quiet, always in the background, always in Steve’s shadow. “What?” Bucky asks, meeting his gaze and blinking.

“Nothing.” Tony says, looking away.

“You can ask me questions if you want, you know? I really don’t mind.”

“Oh I know.” Tony mutters, “I’m about to pull something and you might feel a jolt and –“ It’s all the warning he gives Bucky as he yanks something free and feels Bucky go rigidly tense in his chair before relaxing. “—yeah, there you go.” Bucky gives Tony a  _ look _ , lips pressing into a thin line like he is  _ not _ remotely amused. Tony returns the look with a toothy and cheeky grin because it  _ is _ a little funny; it is the same look Tony assumes grandparents would give their grandkids if they see something that doesn’t quite fit their good graces. Tony’s rather vivid imagination supplies him with the image of granddad-Bucky, waving around his cane with his metal arm, or feeding pigeons. It is not lost to Tony that he must be  _ really _ exhausted if he is imagining something like  _ that _ , let alone think that something like  _ that _ is  _ funny _ . Tony lowers his gaze back to the socket and finishes up; when he is done and he pushes away from the table, pulling his glasses off, he catches Bucky’s quiet gaze on him again. It is a little sobering, and as always, catches Tony off guard because the tension is gone from Bucky’s jaw, the lines smoothing out and eliminating all the rough edges of the Winter Soldier. It is a look, and not for the first time, that Tony isn’t quite sure what to do with, familiar and yet not because once upon a time ago, Bucky had looked upon a younger version of him with the same expression, on his knees and holding out a bag of ketchup flavored chips that he had opened because Tony’s hands had been too small to open it himself. “What? Like what you see?”

(And one winter evening in London, under the glow of golden lights and the glimmer of green and red, he had looked at you the same way, too. Remember?)

“What if I do?” Bucky says, tilting his chin a bit and curve on the corner of his mouth doesn’t vanish.

Tony finds his gaze lingering on that curve and blinks a few times as he stands up and picks up the arm, propping it on the table and easily slotting it into place, leaving the soft hiss and click of the mechanics adjust. Tony doesn’t answer immediately, waiting for the arm to be fully online, not because he doesn’t want to answer, but more because he hadn’t been expecting that kind of a response. If Tony is being honest with himself, he had expected Bucky to look at him unamused of bemusedly, maybe rolls his eyes the same way Steve Rogers does whenever Tony ‘kids around’, as Steve puts it. He had seen how Bucky behaves around some people, how over the course of almost two years, he had slowly loosened up, had gradually opened up to people in the sense that he engages more rather than keeping mostly to himself and being an observant shadow.

(But he’s not Steve Rogers.)

When Bucky flexes his fingers, Tony leans back on his chair.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just make a joke there, because I am not sure how to respond to that without being offensive or making an ass out of myself, don’t judge, I’m tipsy -- how’s the arm? Anything catching? Tight? Give it a bit of a swing, see if there’s a delay?” Tony says, turning in his chair and standing up to reach for the bottle of scotch, pouring himself a glass, and waving it at Bucky in an offering gesture; Bucky shakes his head and starts stretching his new arm, picking up the chair by the arm rest, setting it back down, balling his fist and releasing it, reaching up to the ceiling and bending it at the elbows. Bucky then jabs twice, quick and fast, then goes with the motion of an uppercut and a hook -- the motions are absolutely fluid, the bruises decorating Bucky’s body non-hindering. Tony knows he’s  _ staring _ , knows he’s watching closely as he drains the contents of the glass and feels the burn slide down his throat, just as the embarrassment. He turns away then, pressing the cool glass to his forehead and gives Bucky his back, opting to watch at the glimmer of the city lights ahead of him, as daw slowly creeps over the horizon.

“It’s great.” Bucky says, soft and appreciative, like he’s in awe, and Tony thinks he must be incredibly tipsy if he thinks he can hear some sort of excitement in those words. “Thank you.”

“As always, let me know if you require adjustments. Especially after training or a spar -- I’m interested on the weight and balance feel.” Tony catches Bucky gaze through the reflection on the glass, sees him nod and watches as he puts his shirt back on.

Their gazes remains locked.

And it puts Tony further on the edge because he doesn’t know what to do with himself in the wake of it, he doesn’t know how to _ read _ the Winter Soldier. He doesn’t understand why Bucky looks like he is disappointed, or looks at Tony the way he had been for the past few hours since his arrival. Tony remembers Nevada like it had only been yesterday, where he had been working on the arm for the first time, where there had been weeks’ worth of studious looks that had started off as sharp and focused, like the edge of a blade, to something softer, something calmer and less sinister. He remembers London and the Christmas morning, remembers Rhodey’s wedding where he had caught him watching from across the tables, had seen the slight curve at the corner of Bucky’s lip during his speech and had watch that curve turn to look of surprise, eyes widening. Tony remembers gentler gazes that had been directed to a child, slow and unsure steady grips and words that Tony doesn’t remember physically, but remembers watching repeatedly like a movie when he had been trying to understand what he had missed during the weeks he had been affected by the spell from Nepal; those words had replayed and wormed its way to his conscious mind because  _ do you even have any fucking idea what you’re doing? Do you really think you owe me your life, your rights, your privileges? _

“Are you going to come to DC anytime soon?” Bucky asks, breaking Tony’s train of thought.

“Not sure.” Tony answers, and blinks a few times when he sees the frown appear on Bucky’s face. “I’m supposed to do a press release at the Triskelion once other UN delegates get their schedules sorted out. It’s a mess -- why?”

At this, Tony sets the glass down a little sharply and turns to face Bucky.

Bucky shrugs in response, and picks up his jacket, draping it over his metal arm. He also pulls a pair of gloves from his pocket and starts to put those on too. “Just wondering.”

“Careful there James or I’m gonna start thinking you care about me~” Tony bats his eyelashes and turns away with a soft huff, pouring himself another glass and knocking it back real quick.

“Is that bad?”

“You kidding me? It’s fucking disastrous.” Tony chuckles humorlessly, pouring himself another glass. “Ask Pepper. Or Rhodey. Or Natasha, since she was in charge of my assessment for Fury. Oh wait, no,  _ ask Cap _ .”

“I’m  _ not _ him, Stark.” Bucky says, again with that statement, a little rough around the edges, like he’s frustrated. And it is that tone, that gritting and raspy tenor that makes Tony look up, tensing, spine going as rigid as a board as he picks up the glass and takes a slow measured sip. “Are you scared of me right now?”

Tony wants to say  _ yes _ , as he swallows. Wants to tell him of course I’m fucking terrified, because I don’t know how to gauge you. I know you won’t go off without a verbal code sequence, which you can’ t hear anyway and on the off chance that it does make you go off, there’s a stretch of glass behind me that I can throw myself out of to get away from you. “Yes,” And Tony watches as Bucky’s shoulder visibly  _ slump _ , as the  _ acceptance _ tugs down on his cheek and makes him look  _ small _ , when nothing about him is small, or  _ weak _ . “I have nights where I wake up and think that it’s your fingers digging into my chest, trying to get the arc reactor out. Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to rip my heart out, though, I give you that. But yes, I think that does warrant me to be scared of something that hopefully, won’t happen. Again. I’d really like to keep this part of myself,” Tony gestures to his chest area with the hand holding his glass, trying to make his words sound dismissive, nonchalant. “Intact. Sometimes it’s you, sometimes it Cap. Other days it’s someone else, you know how it goes. But you know what they say, time heals everything.”

Tony thinks he needs to shut the hell up, and he does so by pouring himself another glass that he doesn’t touch after he sets the bottle down.

“I would never do that to you.” Bucky murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

“Spare me.” Tony mutters under his breath, and runs a shaky hand against his hair, carding it backwards as he lowers himself to his chair, tilting his head back.

“Not willingly.” Bucky adds, and Tony watches as he sets his jacket down and hesitates, eyes flicking up from where he had ducked his head. “I would never hurt  _ you _ .”

“Is that your new M.O?” Tony closes his eyes, feeling the fatigued heat behind his eyelids. In the darkness, he can see little flecks of white light. When he opens his eyes to look at the ceiling, he watches as those tiny flecks dissolve towards the corner of his vision and reaches up with both the heel of his palms to rub at his eyes.

“So what if it is?”

“Then I give up trying to figure you out.” Tony says, dropping his hands to his lap and turning to look at Bucky who had moved towards the side of his desk. Tony reaches forward for his filled glass, but Bucky moves it away along with the bottle, out of his reach. “Really?”

“You might get sick,” Bucky sounds hesitant, like he isn't sure if it's his right to even give reference he had been forced to be a part of all those months ago, like it's an invasion of Tony's privacy.

“That was twenty-one year old me who was being a goddamn emotional fucktard over things that were gonna happen anyway. I may have missed a few spa appointments, and a manicure the past month, but I assure you, I’ve got my shit together. Now don’t keep a man from his alcohol, I’m not gonna throw up – I’m not  _ wasted _ , I just fixed your arm, didn’t I?” Tony is on his feet, rounding the table and leaning his hip against the hardwood, getting into Bucky’s space, challenging him to take a step back, to lower his hand away from its guarded and blocking position. “Get out of my way, Barnes.”

“Please stop,” Bucky says, words so, so soft that Tony thinks he imagined it.

“I am not above resorting to very childish gestures to get you to back off. Final warning.” Tony mutters, feeling his throat constrict as he takes another step closer, and from where he is standing, Bucky is a good half a head taller than he is. From where he is standing, Tony needs to look up to meet that piercing gaze with the pupils blown so wide, that the only visible blue is the thin ring around those pupils. Tony reaches over with his hand and hears the class slide across the wood from where Bucky pushes it just that much further away from his reach.

“Hey, come on,” Bucky murmurs, reaching out with is metal hand and taking Tony’s hand in it, pulling it away from the glass and bottle. Tony feels the cool fingertips against his own, feels it trace the line of his palm. Tony looks up then to meet Bucky’s gaze, and once more feels like he’s floating in the ocean, displaced. He feels the warmth of Bucky’s flesh hand steady the tremors of his hand, holding it steady.

“James –“

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” Bucky says, dipping his head. “If time heals everything, maybe one day, you won’t be afraid of me anymore.”

Tony stares at the flex of the metallic knuckles, closes his eyes and hears the rough metallic voice of a failed program ring in his ears. He can suddenly smell the blood and taste it at the back of his throat, feel the ice seeping into the metal joints as he lies there in the frigid ground of the Siberian bunker. He can hear the crunch of metal, of fingers digging into his chest, except Bucky’s fingers aren’t digging into his chest right now, they are splayed over it from where Tony holds it against the  _ rapid _ thump of his heart against his ribcage. It is cold and smooth, perfectly crafted like the suit of his armor. It is not going to you, it is not going to hurt you, James is not going to hurt you.

Tony opens his eyes to look up, expecting the entire thing to be an illusion his sick mind might be cooking up, pointing out things that he had not picked up on all those times ago in Nevada, in London, the few meetings here and there – except James is still standing before him, eyes wide and worried and concerned and looking just as displaced as Tony feels, chest moving in slow and measured breaths, not moving a muscle.

Tony blinks once and then opens his mouth to form words only to end up mincing them somewhere between his molars. The slight twitch of the metallic pinky forces him to meet that gaze that looks at him with something that Tony thinks is fear and hesitation, peppered with a little awe and tension that goes all the way up the metal arm and tugs at the tendons around his neck.

“I’m not afraid you.” The words  _ shakes _ with the uncertainty and the  _ will _ to not fear the Winter Soldier, to not shrink under the hand that lies flat against his chest, even when Tony’s knuckles are white and trembles with the effort of keeping it there and yanking it off him all that the same time. 

“You shouldn’t be,” Bucky says with a very helpless shrug. “You are a lot stronger than I can ever be. if anything, I am the one who should be afraid. If you can fix me up, then you can easily…” 

Tony sucks in a shaky breath, feeling his lower lip tremble with the motion of it, the breath rumbling somewhere in his chest. “Despite what a lot of people say, I would -- I don’t -- I would never do that to  _ anybody _ .”

(I am  _ not _ Ultron!)

“I know.” Bucky pulls his hand away, and Tony closes his eyes when he feels the cold metal against his cheek and the warmth of Bucky’s other hand against the curve of his neck. “ _ I know _ . And I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.” Tony shakes his head, or rather he attempts to and god he’s fucking drunk and he can feel the world start to fall apart around him. Except Bucky stops the shake of his head, when both hands are now cupping him by his face and Tony feels the warmth of a thumb brush against the crest of my cheekbones.

“It is  _ my _ choice.” Bucky murmurs and when the two syllables of Tony’s name roll of Bucky’s lips, Tony opens his eyes and feels the breath catch in his throat. “I am  _ not _ Steve. I am  _ not _ him, Tony.”

And here, Tony sees everything that Steve is  _ not _ . This close, Tony sees the Yang to Steve’s Yin; Bucky is darker and grittier, in the way he walks, the way he  _ fights _ , the way his hands and rips and destroys with purpose, a Soldier born to feed on other’s idealism and agenda. When Steve had a choice, Bucky had none. When Steve holds a Shield to defend, Bucky had an arm that pierces like a sword. When Steve had been had the crowd following him in droves with his optimism, Bucky had the masses fearing him. When Steve had the symbol of the bright star and the red and white stripes that he had donned on proudly as a symbol of hope, Bucky had nothing but the inky blackness of the shadow, with a mask and visor that had further dehumanized him, for he is nothing but a weapon, a symbol of fear. And based on heresy, Tony  _ thinks _ he sees a man not afraid to make a choice for himself, who keeps to himself but reciprocates the effort Tony shows in not being afraid of his victims and not allowing the guilt to overflow, the same way Tony doesn’t let his grief and rage consume him. He sees a man who had chosen to step away from the entire mess after he had gotten out of Hydra and the failure of Project: Insight. And Tony wonders what Bucky would have done with the rest of his life, if Steve hadn’t managed to track him in Bucharest that day, all those years ago. He wonders if like Bruce, if Bucky would have been content with living so far away from everyone and always looking over his shoulders.

“No,” Tony says, and feels Bucky’s hand slide down the side of his face to rest on his shoulders. “You are  _ not _ .” 

And because he is  _ not _ Steve, Tony reaches forward to place both his hands against the sides of his Bucky’s face and slants their lips together. Because he is not Steve, Tony feels the soft strands of Bucky’s hair that tapers off to coarser ends when he cards his fingers through his scalp. Because he is  _ not _ Steve and because Tony had never been one to have some sort of self preservation, because Tony is the king of all bad and impulsive decisions and never one to back down even when his knees are weak and quaking with fear and his heart is wedged and  _ racing _ somewhere in his throat, Tony kisses the Winter Soldier and tastes something bittersweet. He thinks he is tasting  _ Bucky _ and the  _ Soldier _ .

It last a few seconds, nothing more than ten at most, and Tony pulls back, his foot shifting to take a step back.

Except.

Except he sees how Bucky’s eyes flutter open and how he sucks in a breath through lips that are far too soft. Tony watches with something that  _ digs _ into his gut as Bucky’s upper teeth sinks against the curve of his bottom lip, and Tony thinks he must be one crazy son of a bitch to think, amidst everything that lies suspended in the ocean that is his mind, that the subconscious gesture had to be one of the most attractive things he had seen in a very long while. He watches as dark lashes flutter when Bucky blinks, listens to the flow of air as Bucky sucks in a breath.

And when those icy blue eyes locks with his, Tony feels the  _ pull _ physically and something else, that he can’t quite describe when Bucky’s metal arm yanks him close again and his warm hand, his warm and quaking flesh hand, cups Tony’s face and closes the distance between them. Tony feels himself leaning closer, flushed against the broader and taller frame, with no space between them but the sharp breaths they inhale through their noses. There is a certain need in how Bucky  _ holds _ him close, how his  _ fingers _ grip against the fabric of his shirt, crumpling the fabric and splaying over the small of Tony’s back, tracing the line of his spine. Tony feels goosebumps break out all over his lower black when he feels the brush of metal against his flesh, just as he feels the tongue trace the seam of his lower lip. Tony feels his lungs expand with the need for air that is nothing like the suffocating feeling of having water fill his lungs, or having metallic hands wrap around his neck and punctuated with a synthetic mocking voice. When he breaks the kiss with a  _ gasp _ and a sound that sounds too raw, Tony can only turn his head when Bucky trails wet and open mouthed kisses down the side of his lip, tracing a line down the curve of his jaw and lips latching against the raging pulse on his neck. And through all this, Tony can only stare at the ceiling as he  _ gasps _ and grips the strands of long hair, as he feels teeth sink against the soft skin of his neck.

And then Bucky’s mouth go slack against his throat and his fingers spread out against Tony’s lower back and the back of his head, like Bucky is surrendering and trying not to hold on. Tony can hear his ragged breaths, feels the  _ heat _ of it against the curve of his neck. The hand at the back of his skull drops to Tony’s shoulder, where it fists there just like the one that rests on his lower back.

“I should go,” Bucky says, and his voice, Tony is  _ almost _ glad, is about as shaky as the breaths Tony is trying catch for himself.

“Yeah,” Tony says and closes his eyes. “You should.” 

(Please, stay.)

Tony doesn’t open his eyes when Bucky pulls away, doesn’t dare look when he feels Bucky’s warm hand on his cheek, how his thumb traces the curve of his lower lip, how it must feel tickled by the prickly feeling of Tony’s groomed goatee. When Bucky’s hand disappears and Tony feels the air of absences in front of him, he opens his eyes and watches as Bucky turns to pick up his jacket, jaw tight and not daring to look behind him. 

And just like that, Bucky leaves the office and the door clicks shut and Tony is left to his own thoughts and the lingering heat in his belly, and lips and the side of his neck. He brings a hand to his neck, feeling the warmth where Bucky’s teeth had sunken against the flesh, where his tongue had traced what Tony know is a mark that won’t last more than a few hours at most. 

The sudden realization that hours from now, Tony won’t even know if what had happened is real or not, makes something vicious rise somewhere in Tony’s chest. The realization that maybe none of what had happened even  _ happened _ in the first place, that the slightest possibility of it all being a  _ lie _ , that tingle against his neck and the warmth and bittersweetness that still lingers on his lips is not even  _ real _ , leaves Tony feeling helpless and bitter as the heat in his belly twists and morphs to  _ tension _ .

The glass and tumbler flies across the room, spilling amber liquid and shattering into a thousand pieces in a spray of crystal. 

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD YES -- let me just say that I would have updated faster except I was gone for a while and out of the country and now I’m back to my very boring and very routine life and OH MY GOD THIS FUCKING STORY. THESE TWO FUCKING IDIOTS. Had to rewrite a few things but the good news, I have figured out the general direction this is going. It’s gonna be tough. That’s all I’m gonna say.
> 
> Meanwhile, can I just take a moment to pimp out the sweetest and amazing Landizac (tumblr: cazdraws), who illustrated a scene in  Rebirth - chapter 9 ~~GOOD GOD ALL THE FEELS -- I CAN’T.~~  
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/nagi_chan/media/Rebirth.png.html)
> 
> Hopefully won’t take too long to update this time around.


	4. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own BETA. I am sure that despite 100 reads, I have missed a lot of DUH-SO-OBVIOUS typos.
> 
> Longer chapter than previous ones ahead.

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”   
― [ **Victor Hugo**](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13661.Victor_Hugo), [ **Les Misérables**](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3208463)

  
The punch that connects solidly across Bucky’s jaw sends him sprawling down on the workout mat, his reaction time slow and barely having a moment to catch his fall with a damp palm slapping noisily against the ground. The world around him dims and spins at the same time for a brief moment and Bucky is forced to give his head a good shake, his metal fist clenching against the mat, as he brings his flesh hand to wipe at his now profusely bleeding lip.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve’s feet disappears from Bucky’s peripheral only to reappear once more. When Bucky looks up to meet Steve’s gaze and take the offered towel, he notices how discombobulated Steve looks. “What the hell – that’s the  _ third _ time this week, are you okay?”

“Fine,” Bucky mutters, swallowing the taste of copper and swiping his tongue over the cut before pressing the towel against it. He really needs to pay more attention.

Bucky catches how Sam and Clint shakes their heads from where they are parked on their respective wheelchairs by the cooler, while Scott sits perched on the bench with his crutches lying across his lap. He does not miss how Clint forks over a five dollar bill to Sam who wiggles his eyebrows in response, tucking the bill into the pocket of his sweatpants. Bucky  _ almost _ rolls his eyes, figuring that they had a running bet going on who of the two Super Soldiers can get the other on the ground first.

And Steve is  _ winning _ .

It had nothing to do with Bucky not being able to hold his ground. It also had nothing to do with Bucky being overpowered, either. Because Bucky knows he can give as good as he gets, if not more. He knows that if he allows the Soldier to reign free, to let that laser sharp focus to drop down over his eyes, he’d have Steve on the ground faster before he can even blink. Not that Steve would take it lying down, either – Bucky huffs into the towel, applying pressure against his lip, as he gets up from the mat and heads over to cooler, wetting the towel and pressing the icy cold fabric against the cut.

The soft cool sensation of fabric against Bucky’s lip is all it takes to pull the memory from the back of his mind, like the quick rise of the tide. Bucky feels his eyes close and the ghost sensation of lips brushing against his, the sharp and sensual taste of a fifteen year old Glen Dronach and its crisp notes of sherry, coffee and toasted sugar coating his tongue and under all that, something a lot sweeter. He remembers how the silkiness of conditioned hair had felt between his fingers, how the scent of tea tree and musk had assaulted his senses, shooting up his nostrils and invading his mind until it becomes the very air he breathes. Bucky remembers the feel and taste of warm skin, how the pulse had beaten against his tongue, rapid and  _ fast,  _ like the breaths he had felt filling Tony’s chest, how it had expanded and  _ clawed _ for breath that Bucky had sucked right out of him. But most of all, Bucky remembers the  _ warmth _ and the  _ feel _ of that incredibly pliant body, how Tony had  _ held _ on to him, how Tony had  _ not _ let go, and even now, he can hear the soft and shaky tremor of the raw noise that had ripped past Tony’s throat, so  _ breathless _ in its wonder, from when Bucky had sunk his teeth against that beating pulse and had tasted it with his tongue.

(It’s funny, how you cling to this memory like it’s an anchor, a piece of driftwood in the stormy sea of your memories. It is the one thig that feels real to you right now, the thin ray of sunshine permeating through the dark and continuously amassing clouds overhead. It’s the one thing that you cling to when you wake up in the middle of the night with a short gasp of air, when you hear the  _ screams  _ and smell the blood of your victims fills your nose, how the stickiness seeps into your fingernails and in between the plates of your metal fingers, and oh how hard it had always been to get it off, because it never,  _ ever _ does completely wash off.  

So when it’s raw and loud in your mind and you feel like a ripped and singed open nerve, and all you can see is your victim’s distorted faces, you close your eyes again, suck in a breath and think of the sweetness and the warmth of his tongue against yours. You think of the distant fresh and musky scent that seems to be a part of him, all expensive and fancy and probably designer, not something off the counter or probably even specifically tailor- made for him and you  _ feel  _ how it grounds you, the memory of the heat of his body against yours, even when it had only been, no less than a minute and a half  _ at most _ .

It’s  _ that _ little ray of sunshine that keeps you afloat these days. And it’s dangerous to cling to hope, you  _ know  _ this.

But you can’t help it.

Funny, how a fleeting moment like that had turned to something you  _ want _ .

Something you  _ need _ .)

Bucky exhales slowly into the towel, swiping the cold damp fabric down his face and opening his eyes as the memory disappears and he’s dodging the concerned and mildly irritated look Steve is directing at him.

“Oh man, oh man, Barnes’ is getting his ass handed over to him. What’s the update on the score, Tic-tac?” Sam asks.

“Sixty-two to forty-eight.” Scott quips, consulting a little stack of post-it that he keeps in his pocket with a dorky smile that is distorted by the healing bruise on his jaw and his still slightly swollen lower lip and cheek.

Sam whoops and Bucky takes that as a sign that the sparring session is over and makes a dismissive gesture at the peanut-gallery, picking up his keys from the bench and heading towards the showers.  

This is what their team had been reduced to for the time being. With majority of their man-power down, Steve and Bucky had been given the mandatory medical leave that the Taskforce is obligated to follow due to a lot of political red tape, Super soldiers or not. Bucky thinks it is probably a good thing that many are not willing to overstep the boundaries of the Accords and are willing to fully exercise down time if a superhero had returned from a disastrous mission the way Captain America’s team had a few weeks ago.  It’s been a week since Bucky had returned to the DC compound with a new arm, a week since Sam, Scott and Clint had been given the go-green to be able to get out of the infirmary; Bucky thinks though, that the doctors are choosing to be a little lenient with letting them roam around the  _ entire _ compound as opposed to just the medical bay grounds because they know how restless superheroes confided to bedrest can be.

And if Captain America gives them his word that they’ll only be watching him and Bucky spar and keep tally of scores, then it’s not their fault if they buy into Steve’s bullshit.

(Steve’s is quite capable of bullshitting his way through things; this is the same guy who had falsified his records in order to get into the military, after all. Isn’t it always fun to see people buy into that golden-boy-smile and presumable-innocence?)

Bucky still remembers how Sam had continuously complained  _ all afternoon _ of indigestion after  _ inhaling _ three quarter pounders from Burger King in under three minutes.

He also remembers how green around the edges Scott had looked after drinking two large milkshakes from Baskin Robbins.

Having them out and about and joining Steve and Bucky for at least one meal a day and playing referee for their spars and training (and the occasional proposed challenge) is something that Steve allows because as team leader, Bucky knows the entire thing is merely a gesture to boost morale. And Bucky doesn’t mind it; he really, really  _ does not _ . He sees the actual difference in morale of having all three of them cooped in a hospital room and all three of them getting around the compound like age old retired citizens.

Except he knows Sam notices something is off about him. He knows Clint picks up on it too, if his side glances and  _ extremely _ poker expression is anything to go by. And if those two can pick up on it, Bucky is sure that Scott notices the change as well; he just either doesn’t care or is really good at hiding it.

And what a difference it is.

Bucky knows he is even more of a recluse than ever, knows that he is quieter, that he shrinks away from conversation not because he isn’t quite sure what to say or do, or contribute (like during those first few weeks of being around his new team), but because he is far too pre-occupied with thoughts that will garner no fruit whatsoever. Since his arrival, he had fiddled with his phone, had stared at his text and e-mail inbox and had written several messages to address what had happened, all in a sorry-ass attempt to let Tony know that he isn’t on to him  _ just _ for the arm, that there is –  _ shamelessly _ – not an ounce of regret in his bone over what had happened, that he’d do it again and a million times over - repeatedly - if he had the choice.

If he had the  _ right _ .

Bucky remembers typing messages only to erase them. Over and over again, ranging from,  _ I’m-sorry-I-left-so-fast _ , and a couple of pitifully, and pathetically  _ you’re-all-I-think-about _ . There had been multiple variations of those over the course of the week, sometimes long and sometimes just a few words, in all possible tones and formats. It does not escape a part of Bucky’s mind that  _ the _ Bucky a life time ago would have  _ never _ had to resort to something like  _ this _ .  _ That _ Bucky would have written right back, or he would not have even left in the first place. He certainly would have had cleared the air or at least not just run away the way he had that night like a sinner from church. That Bucky would have had the balls to speak up, to compute and form some sort of solution and put it all to rest before it morphs to what Bucky is facing  _ now _ . He certainly would not have wasted any time in (and the heavens all mighty  _ forbid _ ) pining.

And the  _ Soldier _ , well that one Bucky knows would not surrender to his whims at all. The Soldier after all, had nothing to go by except to complete whatever task he is given. The Soldier would have not endangered himself by daring to  _ hope _ , or daring to even acknowledge that the little ray of sunshine pouring through the storm clouds of his existence and reality  _ is _ a good thing because the Soldier knows better and is pretty damn good in turning a blind eye to unnecessary distractions. It only knows goals, and right now, apparently, the goal had been to not let  _ anything _ happen to Tony, especially after Nevada. So the Soldier does not see their night in New York as anything; to the Solider, the night in New York is  _ nothing _ .

Which leaves Bucky in a place that is neither here nor there.

Because he is Bucky Barnes of the forties and yet not. He is the soldier and yet not.

He is the culmination and remains of all the broken pieces of two men who had existed in two very different ways, one that is only held together with fickle glue and floating in a gray and turbulent storm that is the wake of two lifetimes that Bucky had no chance to live or had any say or control over. He is left with nothing but the sludge of his sins from one  lifetime along with cold sweats and the muted panicked breaths when the sun creeps over the horizon, and the memory of a man who had once been whole, and not broken, who had aspirations and ambition, who had wanted to serve his country for God and glory, who had a  _ family _ and confidence that had glimmered in the surfaces of his steel blue eyes, just as much as the sheen of his finely polished leather boots and the slick of his combed back hair that the ladies so adored back in the day.

Bucky is none and neither of that anymore.

And as he tilts his head to the shower and feels the warm spray against his face, his thoughts wander to that night in New York, and he cannot resist as the memory surfaces again, warm and like an embrace that he knows he’s never going to feel again.

“Buck,” Steve sounds hesitant as he calls his name out.

Bucky ducks his head and reaches forward to turn off the shower. He doesn’t know how long Steve had been standing there behind him in the open shower facility; he doesn’t even know how long he had been standing there with his face up against spray and his metal hand braced against the tiles.

“It stopped bleeding.” Bucky mumbles, plucking the towel from the wall hook and draping it over his waist before he turns to face Steve. He brings a hand up to touch his lip which is slightly puffy. “It’ll probably be gone by tomorrow.”

“You know I know that. And that’s not the point – Buck you’ve been really distracted. Is it…”

“It’s not the Soldier. Or Hydra.” Bucky says, dismissing that idea all together before Steve  pushes on with it, reaching up and back with his hands to squeeze the excess water out of his hair before following Steve out of the shower room. “I’m fine, Steve. Really. I’m not made of glass. I can take a hit.”

“I’m not saying you can’t.” Steve swallows and Bucky is  _ almost _ amused with how Steve doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself; he remembers a skinny little runt, somewhere behind the bleachers at school, trying to psyche himself up to tell some bullies to back of, giving himself a mental pep-talk before he goes in guns blazing. Except this Steve does it with less hand wringing, less jitter and less pacing.

(You never really forgot your memories; you remember  _ everything _ , even if it feels foreign. What comes back to you now isn’t chunks of memories you had thought you lost but the finer details of it, like the kind of doily your mother used to have on dining table and dressers, or the color of your sister’s favorite earrings – turquoise, with a daisy-like patterns around the stone -  or the smell of Sarah’s lasagna and how the large ceramic pot she usually made it in had been a two toned shade of yellow and moss green, the cheap and functional kind. You had not been able to focus on any of these during the wipes where they had been effectively repressed along with the memories like a forcibly induced blunt force trauma and conscious coma, all in one. They trickle back like a leaky tap, bit by bit adding color and smell and sensation to thinks you had  _ believed _ you had forgotten.)

“It’s nothing, Steve. Really. I just – I just have a lot of things on my mind, that’s all.” Bucky thinks he sounds convincing, and hopes that Steve would just drop it, because it’s not a lie.

“Is there  _ anything _ I can do to help?” Steve asks, chin tilting up just the tiniest bit in what Bucky reads as false bravado.

Steve knows something is up and Bucky had inkling he may just know exactly  _ what _ . Steve had always been a perceptive kid when he had wanted to be; it had gone hand in hand with his stubbornness.

“No,” Bucky shakes his head, and tugs his shirt and sweatpants on. “This one is on me, pal.”

“Okay,” Steve says and Bucky is glad that Steve drops it. Bucky drops his towel into the chute and waits for Steve to lace up his shoes, as he gathers up his hair into a wet ponytail. “Just -- you know I’m here for you, right?”

“I know,” Bucky answers and feels his lips twitch up into a small ghost of a smile.

And just like that, Steve does drop it and flashes him a sheepish look. “I hope you don’t mind burgers.”

“If I have to hear Sam complain about a stomach ache again, I swear Steve, I will punch him where it  _ hurts _ .” Bucky mumbles, with a bit of an eye roll that leaves Steve chuckling good-naturedly and clapping a hand against his back.

They join the rest of the team back outside and head over to the mess hall, moving at a leisurely pace just so that Scott doesn’t have to rush while maneuvering himself on his crutches. Much to Bucky’s relief, there is pizza instead of burgers waiting for them at the reception and just like the past week, they are sitting on the table overlooking the main administration building and the parking lot and sharing a meal. Bucky half listens to the conversation about television seasons and recently released movies. He only manages to relate to about a quarter of the conversation, which easily dissolves to Clint and Sam picking on Steve and Scott for not keeping up with the times. It’s somewhere between his third slice of pizza that Bucky feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and he pulls it out to read a reply to the text he had sent about the arm days ago, after the first spar with Steve to test the arm out:

_ Good to hear, cowboy. Late reply is super late, but Daddy’s back in business. Any complaints? Feedback? _

Bucky is quick to type a response:  _ No, it’s really great. Feels a lot more durable than the previous one. I really like it. _

The conversation happening at the table doesn’t even reach his ears anymore because Bucky is watching the three flashing dots fade and appear as Tony types form the other side, half eaten pizza forgotten on the napkin in front of him. The phone vibrates when Tony responds with:

_ Awesometastic. Take care of this one, okay? It’s very special. _

Bucky watches as the dots reappear, and disappear, only to reappear and flash and vanish in the text area as Tony types and stops, types and stops before it ceases completely and the conversation window remains silent. Bucky waits for a good solid three minutes and when nothing comes up, he responds with a short,  _ I will _ and it feels so flat to him, almost dishonest and Bucky types _ again _ and erases one apology or one honest thing after the other, until he settles for something short and to the point, addressing the elephant in the room in less than ten words:  _ I’m not sorry for what happened that night. _

And when the three dots fade and appear only to finally vanish and the conversation drops once more with little to no acknowledgement from Tony whatsoever, Bucky feels like the world’s biggest fool. He gives up waiting and sets the phone down on the table, berating himself for feeling disappointment because  **_why_ ** _ are you even disappointed? Did you honestly think  _ **_anything_ ** _ would come out of it at all? You’re a deluded idiot, Barnes, for daring to even  _ **_hope_ ** _ in the first place -- you knew it was dangerous territory, you knew investing in something with no turnaround was a bullshit move and you went ahead and did it anyway. You have no one to blame but yourself. _

Bucky blinks  once, a gesture to ground himself back to the reality of having late lunch with his teammates, and returns to the conversation around him, reaching out to pass the napkins to Sam like he had not been lost in his own thoughts. Which is why he  _ almost _ jerks out of his seat when his phone starts to vibrate insistently with an incoming call, Tony’s name flashing on the screen. He picks up the phone off the table, chair screeching against the linoleum floor as he mutters a quick  _ excuse me _ and jogs out of the mess hall, stepping into one of the closest emergency exits before swiping at the flashing green button on the screen.

“I am not going have this conversation through text -- I’m not fucking twelve. So if you’re not sorry, then  _ what _ are you? ” Tony asks, voice clear and cutting, sharp like he’s trying to start an argument.

Bucky realizes then as he lowers himself to a step on the stairwell, shoulder brushing against the metal banister that he’s  _ nervous _ , his hands shaking visibly like a patient with a diagnosed on-set of Parkinson’s. “Transparency, right?”

“Right…”

“Then, I’m not sure.”

“Buddy, you’re gonna have to fucking do  _ a lot better _ than I’m not sure. Try again!” Tony  _ snaps _ .

The silence that falls between them is like a veil, not exactly foreign seeing as they had a lot of it from as early as their days in Nevada. It isn’t exactly new, and yet something about this particular pause makes Bucky feel like he’s sitting on needles this time around. Because this time around, Bucky isn’t studying someone else, or examining a scene before him.

This particular silence requires for him to survey himself, to reach down and  _ dig _ and  _ claw _ at parts of him he does not pay much attention to because there is never really a need to.

And the Soldier part of him tells him this is a wasted effort, that this will serve no purpose in helping with the cause to keep ‘Tony Stark Safe’, that if anything, it may only result in the other party getting angry, therefore compromising your goals further because if he pushes you away, then how the fuck can you be involved – however small – in keeping him safe?

Bucky Barnes of the forties thinks it’s stupid that he’s even wasting his time. That Bucky Barnes had been a romantic too, and thinks that the entire situation is messy and that it may just get in the way of their already seemingly established working relationship,  _ just let it go, man. _

(So you’re left with just good old James – what are you going to do?)

When all else failed, according to Tony, transparency had worked for him at the time when he had been at his most vulnerable state.

So who is to say that it wouldn’t work for him, either?

Either way, Bucky knows that he had gotten himself into this situation; he is on his own.

So he swallows thickly after a long while, carding his fingers apprehensively through his hair and hunching forward, dropping his head to his chin as he feels the pull and stretch at his neck the upper half of his spine. “I don’t want to lie to you, so I’m not going to. I owe you that much. This thing…” Bucky closes his eyes and remembers the feel of Tony’s fingers against his scalp, carding through his hair, how it had pulled at the softer and thinner ones around the nape of his neck, and how it had stung in the most beautiful way. He remembers those fingers had dug into the skin around the nape of his neck, like it had been trying to undo whatever shell Bucky holds around himself as protection. “I’m not sure what to make of it. You know what it’s like, don’t you? To wake up in the dark and immersed in the memory of your sins, your mistakes and all your regrets? I remember all of them,  _ all the time _ , every night. Some nights it’s hazy, but most nights it’s clear like it just happened yesterday. I know it’s not gonna go away, and something like this can never fully heal, it’s something I have to live with -- I’m not going to delude myself into thinking that it  _ will _ vanish. I have nights where it takes  _ forever _ to separate one reality from the other, to remember that it’s just a memory, that it had passed and there’s nothing I can  _ do _ to change it.” Bucky hears the hitch in Tony’s breath, hears him suck in a shaky inhale like he had been caught off guard. “But lately…” Bucky opens his eyes in his memory and sees the glimmer of the New York skyline stretching ahead of him, sees golden amber specs in the amidst the pools of dark brown like expensive scotch, looking up at him. Bucky remembers the lines of Tony’s lips, how they part in a breath that Tony’s lungs is struggling to pull in, because those few seconds had been  _ too much _ all at once. Bucky remembers how his eyes narrow, eyelids dropping with each inhale, like it’s a battle to suck in air when they’re  **_so_ ** close, that Bucky can taste the  _ need _ between them. “... lately it’s easier to separate the past from the present, because all I have to do is remember  _ you _ , from  _ that _ night. The old Bucky thinks that this is stupid, that I should just grow a fucking pair, man up and move on. The soldier thinks I’m compromised. And now I’m stuck in the middle between those two with no direction in sight, except for the fact that I’m glad they’re forcing us on medical rest after that goddamn mission because  _ you _ are all I think about. So when I say I’m not sure, it’s not because I’m deflecting or making an excuse. It’s because I’m navigating in the dark, here, and I really don’t know where I’m going.”

The silence between them is thick and Bucky brings a hand to cover his mouth to muffle whatever raw noise that wants to rip past him, something between relief and despair because he’s done it, hasn’t he? This is it. He feels like an exposed nerve, what with all his cards on the table.

“A part of me doesn’t trust my own memory right now and with good reason. And that very same part of me is trying very hard to convince myself that it  _ never _ happened.” Tony answers.

“But it did.” Bucky murmurs, feeling his throat constrict, the words  _ weak _ and  _ so _ small.

“It did.” Tony says, the edge and grit in his tone gone. It is replaced by something that reminds Bucky of that one Christmas morning, where he had watched Tony’s shoulder droop in surrender, when all the fight had finally left him.

Bucky closes his eyes and feels like an absolute wretched thing, and not for the first time, he feels like the crushing weight of the world resting upon his shoulders, like he’s drowning and choking into a crimson abyss that he knows he is never going to get out of. The acceptance of that punishing weight makes him sigh softly, and murmur, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m on a flight from Seoul and will be in DC in a few hours; scheduled press conference in a few days. I’ll see you then.” The words make Bucky blink, completely caught off guard, like the ground had been yanked off from under him so  _ suddenly _ . It goes against what he had been subconsciously prepping his emotional state for. “For the record, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing right now by telling you this or admitting that I do want to see you, that I want to keep seeing you, but if all this goes to hell in a handbasket, then it is my fault.”

“Just as much as it will be mine,” Bucky adds.

“Deal.” Tony says and the call ends.

It is  _ so _ abrupt that Bucky pulls the phone away from his ear to look at the home screen, just to make sure that HE had heard right, that the call had truly ended.

He sits there staring at the light gray walls of the staircase, feeling completely out of his element, and groundless. Bucky blinks away the confusion and stands up to head back to the mess hall in some sort of trance and when he sits back on his chair, and accepts the mug of coffee Steve slides over to him, it  _ hits _ him.

“You good there, champ?” Clint asks, both eyebrows going up to his hairline, his gaze sharp like the smirk that is tugging at the corner of his lip.

It  _ hits _ Bucky harder than a punch in the middle of his face; Bucky feels as big as a hot air balloon, floating higher and higher.

“Yeah,” He says, sound like he feels, disconnected and  _ dazed. _ “Yeah…”

\--

Bucky had expected a lot of things but a text message with an address seven hours later, just as he loses his round in Street Fighter against Scott, had not been it. He had spent the whole day reading a book without reading it, listening to conversations without listening – he doesn’t even know where his day had gone. The only thing in his mind at the moment is the short text he had memorized:

_ Ambassador Suite, The Park Hyatt, Georgetown – extra key card at the reception. Ask for Marla. _

“I gotta go,” Bucky says, standing up from the recreational room sofa.

“Oh? Where are you going?” Steve asks, glancing at him only briefly from his turn at the controller.

“West End.” Bucky mumbles, patting his pocket for his keys to make sure it’s there.

“Need a ride?” Steve offers, turning to look at him fully, hitting the pause button.

“Nah, I’ll take a cab.” Bucky says, pointedly dodging the probing look and quietly makes his way to the door.

“Oh, okay. You gonna be joining us for dinner later?” Steve asks, un-pausing the game and turning his attention back to the screen.

Bucky can feel the weight of Sam and Clint’s gazes though, boring through the side of his skull; he can almost see it from his peripheral standing point.

“No,” Bucky says and removes himself from the room immediately before more questions can arise.

He doesn’t waste time and jogs down the hall, crossing the lawn to their building. In under twenty minutes, he finds himself sitting inside a cab, dressed in the first pair of jeans,  jacket, and t-shirt he had gotten his hands on, with his hair damp and hanging around his face from a more thorough shower than the one he had earlier in the morning; he had hoped that the cold water would calm his sudden onset of nerves that feels so ridiculously foreign. It had done nothing. So he sits there in a daze throughout the entire journey from the compound to Georgetown, all the way through the slight traffic jam and until the cab had come to a stop in front of the hotel entrance.

Bucky doesn’t ask for the change when he forks over a hundred dollar bill.

He doesn’t even verbally respond to the doorman when he holds the door open for him, welcoming him with a polite smile.

Bucky wastes no time or movement and makes a beeline for the reception, finds Marla to be a young brunette with a wide smile and perfectly manicured nails sliding a key card envelope and says, “Mister Stark is expecting you. Suite number four. Elevator is down that way to your right. Once in the elevator, please press A. Can I assist you with anything else, Mr. Barnes?”

“No,” Bucky manages to say, working his vocal chords as he takes the card and tucks it into his pocket. “Thanks.”

“Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Barnes.” Marla says, dipping her head in the required and rehearsed hospitable politeness before she looks away to attend to another patron.

Bucky crosses the distance between the desk and elevator, unsure of what to expect. And before he knows it, he is standing in front of a polished wooden door, with the key card shaking in his flesh hand. He stares at how the flimsy trembling thing in his grip for a moment, feeling his heart pick up the pace under his rib cage, the blood rushing loudly in his ears, because he doesn’t know what to expect here. He doesn’t know what Tony had meant with ‘deal’. A part of him can guess, but that belongs to a part of him that had been long dead. Only one thing remains sure: he wants to see Tony again.

Bucky sucks in a slow inhale, transfers the plastic card to his metal hand and slides it into the card slot, listening to the door mechanics turn and unlock and give way as he grabs the handle and pushes his way in.

The room is dim and mostly shadowed, with only the corner lights down the hall illuminating one side of the room. Bucky passes by a pair of shoes in the small hallway, and spots two suitcases in the storage room with its door ajar. He walks past the four-seater dining table, sees a bucket of ice and a missing glass from what should have been a pair on the tray; there is no bottle in sight. And when Bucky steps into the living area, he finds Tony sitting on one corner of the plush white sofa, arm over the backrest and staring through the scenic view of West End below him, a glass of blue Johnny Walker in hand, while the bottle lays forgotten on the coffee table. Gone is the man who is always dressed for the cameras, always impeccable and all silk ties, and designer suits, like he had just stepped out of a runway in Milan. What sits here now is a man exhausted from hopping around the world, dressed down in a tank top and sweatpants, with a hand against his temple, like he’s trying to stave off a headache. Bucky can see the bags and lines under his eyes, can see the slight tremble in his fingers, and while it isn’t as bad as it had been a week ago (or the many times before), it isn’t completely gone either.

Tony doesn’t look at him as he stands but a few feet away, next to the wooden panelled walls of the entertainment system and for a while, Bucky wonders if maybe Tony isn’t aware of his surroundings, if he’s combing through the network through Extremis.

Except Tony’s wrist moves just the tiniest bit and brings the glass to his lips to empty it before dropping his gaze to the glass.

“You’re all I think about, too.” Tony says and those words drive a wedge right through Bucky’s throat, as he tries to swallow through it.

Tony looks up from the glass and meets Bucky’s gaze then and god, he looks so tired, he looks like he’s given up, and so not put together. What sits before him is what is left of the man after the power, fortune and armor is stripped off completely. It makes Bucky think of that twenty-one year old young man who had balled up in the corner of Stark Manor’s cellar, with his thin fingers struggling to get a bottle of wine open, how his eyes had looked so haunted and hollow.

Tony is looking at him the same way now, except this no longer had the spark that once young man had.

(There is no hope.)

Bucky watches as Tony’s gaze flickers away, lashes fluttering shut for a brief moment as his throat bobs with a dry swallow. Even as a young man, Tony had pretended that he had his shit together.

This one isn’t even  _ trying _ .

“Can I hold you?” Bucky asks, the words barely a whisper, the tenor in his voice thick.

And Tony looks up at him at that, lips parting as he swallows dryly again; Bucky sees the hesitation, the war between a billion things raging briefly over the dark irises and in just that moment, Bucky thinks he sees a spark that hadn’t been there. It isn’t fear of the Winter Soldier, it isn’t something that is a  remnant of their time in Siberia; it is the kind of fear that Bucky is familiar with, the kind that makes you hesitate in opening the door and letting someone in. And just as quick as it comes out, it is hidden once more under the shadow of Tony’s eyelashes, as he gives a small nod.

Bucky slides his hand off the corner of the wall, stepping closer and reaching out in what feels like a daze, taking the glass off Tony’s grip and setting it on the table. It feels like he’s wading through the ocean, limbs heavy and mind heady. He feels the tension in Tony’s hand as he takes it in between his, sees how muscles coil and tense with rigidness under lightly tanned skin. But Tony doesn’t pull away, nor does he resist the guided movement when Bucky carefully coaxes Tony to stand up, the silence between their breaths only disrupted by the sound of cotton and soft leather brushing against each other.

And when Tony is on his feet and the very subtle fresh scent of tea tree and musk fills his senses, Bucky feels his eyes slide shut and his hands release its hold on Tony’s, fingers brushing against hip bones and circling around to Tony’s lower back just as Bucky buries his face against warm junction of his neck and shoulder. Bucky inhales  _ deeply _ , feeling his mind settle to something calm and still and when he feels Tony’s hands press against the middle of his back, when his body settles into the warmth and comfort of their embrace that feels like home, Bucky feels the exhale taper off to a sigh and the world can  _ burn  _ around him for all he cares, Bucky does not want anything more than this.

Because there is a sense of alleviation in the warmth in his arms, at the feel of Tony’s breath against his ear.

Bucky doesn’t know how long they stand that way in the middle of the dim living room, because if he can keep this, if he can hold on to this for as long as he can, Bucky thinks that he won’t be afraid of what comes when the sun rises. He won’t fear the memories that are as clear as a lake in mid-spring, because he won’t drown in it, he won’t be adrift, as long as he holds on to  _ this _ , Bucky is  _ almost _ convinced that he’ll be fine in every true sense of it.

When Tony pull away, it is only by a fraction, just enough so that he is looking up and meeting Bucky’s gaze and all Bucky can see is his reflection on those molten brown surfaces, specked with gold. Because Tony is only looking at him, and no one else; Bucky holds his full attention.

“What if you’re not real?” Tony asks, lines appearing between his eyebrows, eyes closing as their foreheads press against each other.

“Then we’re  _ both _ doomed to be damned,” Bucky answers and tilts his head to press his lips against Tony’s, a slow brush and caress of their lips.

Until it isn’t.

Tony’s mouth  _ opens _ up  _ hungrily _ , tilting his head more so their mouths cover each other and then Bucky forgets what’s real and what’s not, as Tony pulls his tongue into his mouth. There is something savage in the way Tony  _ drags  _ his fingernails against the fabric of Bucky’s t-shirt and jacket, something raw in how they slide off from the bunched fabric and reaches up to push the jacket off Bucky’s shoulders. It falls in a careless heap on the ground and the shirt follows it when Tony yanks his mouth back with gasp, and Bucky is left there sucking a breath through his nose and clenched teeth, eyes scrunching shut as he almost  _ tears _ the shirt off his head. And for a moment in what feels like eternity, there is a pause as the image of Tony’s eyes glazed with something as hot as molten iron rakes over the small scars and tensed muscle over Bucky’s chest and stomach before their eyes lock, and that is when Bucky feels the  _ need _ stab him from the depths of his being.

And he forgets about control as he grabs Tony by the hip and  _ yanks _ him close, sealing their mouths and tasting the bitter sweetness on Tony’s tongue, a mixture of overpriced bitter whiskey and that familiar sweetness that he had thought about  _ all _ week. He chases after it as he  _ drags _ his tongue across the seam of Tony’s mouth, as he feels their teeth clack and collide against each other as they tear the walls off each other. Bucky’s knuckles are white when he grabs at Tony’ tank top and drags it of him and flinging to the side. He hears the soft  _ hiss _ leave Tony’s lips when his metal hand presses against his side, spreading goosebumps all over and eliciting the shakiest of  _ noises  _ out of Tony’s throat.

It’s enough to make Bucky stop and still in his motions, rigid and gritting his teeth as he hides his  _ need _ against Tony’s temple, biting back the  _ snarl _ that is trying to come out because he doesn’t want to stop, he doesn’t want to step back and doesn’t want to let go.

And how the snarl comes out when Tony’s hands grabs him by the face and presses lips against his own that curls back with a hiss of frustration, and  _ desperation _ , so raw and visceral that it sears a hot trailing line down Tony’s chin, as Bucky kisses his way to his throat, sinking his teeth against the soft flesh as their hips  _ grind _ against each other.

Tony’s fingers are on the button of his jeans and Bucky is kicking his shoes off and when Tony murmurs his name against his ear, syllables barely even forming, Bucky feels like he’s on a different plane of existence all together and all of a sudden he’s pulling away slowly, away from the red marks he leaves all over Tony’s throat and shoulder, away from the warmth of smooth skin and the feel of arousal pressing against his own. Bucky  _ stops _ because he’s  _ looking _ at Tony, completely debauched in his arms and chest heaving, flushed around the cheekbones and lips bruised with the savage assault Bucky had rained upon it. Tony, whose eyes are glassy and glowing with the depths of the universe, where Bucky can still see himself clearly in the dark amber mirrors of his gaze and all Bucky can think of is how beautiful and strong, and kind, and patient and dedicated this man before him is, the man he had taken everything away from, and yet still chooses to stand there before him, afraid and yet unafraid, always strong, always, always so goddamn strong.

“Please don’t go,” Tony says – so vulnerable, so  _ quiet _ in his admittance over something that he can’t imagine must be real.

And Bucky makes the decision then, as he steps closer and wraps his arms around Tony, closing the distance between them and says, “I won’t…”

Bucky doesn’t quite remember how or when he ends up on his back on the bed, jeans forgotten somewhere between the living area and the bedroom. He doesn’t even remember how he ends up in Tony’s mouth, with his hips arching off the soft sheets and fingers fisting into them and god, how Tony takes him in like it’s all he wants to do, how Tony drinks him in, swallows him like a starved man – Bucky cannot think when he’s got the most intimate parts of him in Tony’s hands, when Tony’s tongue traces the lines of his arousal and dips into the slit of his cock, worming the tip of his tongue into that  _ hurts _ in the sweetest way possible. That is when Tony looks up at Bucky, that’s when their gazes lock as Bucky  _ chokes _ on a gasp that leaves his head reeling and the world around him tilting to one side.

He sees how Tony is enjoying it, sees how the precum is smeared all over his lips and chin, how the tips of carefully groomed goatee glistens in the dim lighting, and how the ghost of a smirk lingers around the corners of his lips. When Tony’s tongue darts out to run over the curve of his own lip, when it reaches out to  _ taste _ the precum that  _ spills _ from the head of Bucky’s cock, Bucky feels his body tense and release, like a coiled spring being set  _ free _ . And then he’s got Tony on the bed and one hand pinned beside his head, as Bucky devours him and reaches down for his cock, thick and heavy with  _ need _ , slick with the precum that had been gathering around the head of Tony’s arousal all this time and Bucky  _ strokes _ , long and languid that leaves Tony shaking underneath him, and head craning backwards as he shudders and gasps against the ceiling, eyes rolling back just as his teeth bites down to keep the  _ whimpers _ at bay.

But something in Bucky would not have it.

Something in Bucky does not want this suppressed need, does not want the quiet and hushes, the strangled gasps and trembling muted whimpers – so he’s grabbing Tony by the chin and meshing their lips again, fingers pushing Tony’s hair back and gaze dropping down to watch those lips stutter with the syllables of his given name, watches how Tony can’t stop himself from  _ groaning _ when his hands starts stroking and how those groans melt to short gasps.

Yet it’s not enough and suddenly Bucky is turning Tony on the bed, pushing him stomach down against the sheets and jerking his hips up as his fingers find the warmth between Tony’s legs, the spasming entrances that is puckered under the tips of his fingertips. Bucky barely remembers to grab the small bottle by the pillows, isn’t even sure if he’s got enough on his tingle fingertips as he pushes past the ring of muscle and Tony’s  _ cry _ fills the space around them. And it all happens so fast because one second he’s got one finger in and the next he’s got three and Tony barely able to keep himself upright on all fours, with bruises and marks littering all over his lower back from where Bucky had sunk his teeth against the skin there in an attempt to keep himself grounded, to keep himself from losing control so fast when all he wants to do is just that.

And when he pushes into the tight heat, when he feels the body before him  _ shudder _ and Tony’s cry  _ die _ into something  _ breathless _ and  _ beautiful _ , when he’s all the way in and there is no walls between himself and Tony, when they are what is left of the men they had once been, when it’s just the little pieces of all the bad decisions, the misfortunes, the betrayals and all the forced agendas, the lies, the deaths and the funerals, like this, Bucky thinks he  _ breathes _ for the first time.

There is nothing intimate with how he pushes and pounds into Tony’s body, nothing gentle or loving or romantic, how Bucky holds on to the pliant body beneath him with hands firm and bruising around Tony’s hip bones. There is no sound between them, save for the grunts and  _ cries _ that spills from Tony’s mouth, and when Bucky slows and  _ yanks _ Tony up and against his chest, wrapping his flesh arm around his chest and keeps them there, when he  _ grinds _ against him and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh is replaced by the slow slide of sweat slicked skin against one another, the sounds the fill the room is about as  _ small _ and wanton as the look Tony gives him from over his shoulder, mouth slack in a open mouthed gasp as Buck grinds up, driving deeper and  _ deeper _ into him as Tony stares unseeingly at Bucky’s own parted lips, their breaths mingling.

And when Bucky jerks his hips and pulls all the way out, when he  _ slams _ back all the way in and Tony  _ jerks _ with the force of it, and  _ cry _ that spills from Tony’s lips fuels a blazing fire in Bucky that makes his hips jerk faster and harder, as he grits his teeth and forces everything to leave Tony’s mouth, tears everything out of him and swallows it down, holding him against his chest with both arms in a subconscious gesture of possession, because he doesn’t want to lose this, doesn’t want to let go, because this moment is his to keep.

It’s theirs.

(Your little secret.)

Bucky is the only thing keeping Tony anchored , the only thing holding him upright on his knees as he takes possession that body that Tony offers so willingly, without hesitation until Tony is arching against his grip and his fingers  _ dig  _ against the sides of Bucky’s legs, nails raking and scratching and breaking skin even in their bluntness, as Tony comes with a shuddering gasp that is breathless and quiet, spilling into Bucky’s fist and body clenching around Bucky’s cock and Bucky can’t – he can’t stop pushing into Tony, can’t stop getting enough of the small  _ whimpers _ that fall out of his mouth as he tries to claim his own release.

It is when Tony opens his eyes and his eyelashes flutter for a moment, when  _ James _ comes out in an exhale, Bucky feels his body give in then and then his gritting his teeth and  _ snarling _ as he buries his face against Tony’s shoulder, coming and spilling into the wonderful and welcoming heat of Tony’s body,  _ shaking _ with the brutal force of it, how it just comes from parts of him that Bucky had forgotten even existed.

And when it’s all over, when Bucky manages to catch his breath and he follows Tony down on the bed and carefully roll off him, when he feels the body shudder under him as he pulls his softening cock out, he curls against Tony, tugging the warmth against him like a security blanket and throwing his arm around Tony’s side, his flesh hand brushing against sweat and precum and small splatters of Tony’s cum, feeling muscle under his fingers until his hand settles over Tony’ sternum.

The world drifts away into a comfortable haze and Bucky thinks he hears Tony ask him to stay, and Bucky thinks he feels Tony’s hand weakly rest over the curve of his flesh elbow.

Bucky tightens his hold, pressing his lips against Tony’s shoulder blade, because _I’m not going to let anything happen to you;_ _I got you, ya hear me?_

 

\--

Tony knows he’s lying on his back and that his feet are  _ cold _ . He doesn’t remember when he had fallen asleep, doesn’t even remember what time it had been, because all he can think of now, is the annoying cold is creeping up to his ankles, and up his knees, spreading all over his thighs until the cold is all he feels all over, skin breaking into a goosebumps, tiny hairs at the back of his neck standing. Tony feels himself hiss sleepily, fingers feeling around the bed he’s on for the edge of the blanket to tug over himself.

Except it’s suddenly noisy because he hears what sounds like metal bang against metal, repetitive, like iron being forced into a certain shape. Tony tries to turn his head away from the source of the noise, thinking that maybe it’s something being down outside, some construction work in DC, which is why he despises DC, except the noise gets louder and closer, and when Tony cracks his eyes open, he sees the blue cowl and the blue-green eyes of a man he had given up so much for, had fought so much for, a man he wants to be worth  _ something _ to. He sees the snarl and grit of his perfect teeth, the anger in his eyes like wildfire – and the shield is coming down -- oh god, it’s coming.

Tony doesn’t get to bring his arms up to block and hears the crunch of his sternum first.

Before his body gives against the sheer force of it and his chest is arching up form the brutal impact of it as his chest is split open in almost half.

And then he’s suddenly sitting up and gasping out a terrified  _ scream,  _ his hands coming up to his chest where it’s solid and his sternum is whole. It isn’t smashed in half, it isn’t open and bleeding, and there is no arc reactor, there is nothing missing – Tony looks down and sees his chest heaving, fingertips feeling the bone underneath the flesh, solid, whole, not open, not in half, no splinters, no arc reactor, his heart is still beating under it, rapid and terrified, but whole and  _ functioning _ .

Until Tony feels the semi-cool smoothness of the metal arm around his waist and feels a flesh hand against the curve of his shoulder. The stiffness that shoots up his spine to rigidity illicits a quiet shaky breath out of his tone, the touch startling as he slowly looks up and sees Bucky sitting up from the bed, cheeks flushed and hair tousled from sleep, carefully wrapping himself around Tony’s shivering frame.

He had been expecting someone else,  _ something  _ else, with eyes red like depths of hell and fingertips cold as the frozen alps. 

But Tony sees clear blue eyes, no hints of green in its depths; it is the perfect shade of a sunny winter sky. It does not belong to the man who had woken him up with the intent to smash his chest open. 

It does not belong to  _ monster,  _ either.

“Hey,” Bucky says softly, words brushing against Tony’s temple.

“Hey,” Tony croaks back, and scrunches his eyes shut to ward away the image of Steve’s angry gaze, to forget the feel of his chest splitting open under the force of the shield. 

(Because it’s not Steve, it’s not Ultron.)

“It’s not real,” Bucky murmurs, and Tony can do nothing as Bucky guides him back to the bed, carefully lays him back down on the pillows, flesh hand pressing against his face; Tony cannot stop himself from leaning into the warmth. “Whatever it is, it’s not real.” Tony dares to open his eyes at those words, dares to look up as Bucky carefully slides over him, carefully placing himself between Tony’s legs, and wrapping his arms around him. “I got you… whatever it is, I’m  _ not _ gonna let anything happen to you.”

Tony feels throat go dry and he wants to believe those words, he wants to trust it, wants so badly to think it’s real – and he thinks they are real, when Bucky kisses him, slow and languid and lazy, so unlike the brutal need from the other night. Bucky kisses him like he’s revering in the feel of his lips, and when Tony feels the flesh hand slide down his side and lifts his leg up, when he feels the thickness of Bucky’s cock slide into his still semi-slick entrance from last night’s lubrication, when Tony’s thoughts and fears comes to a screeching halt and all he can think of is the thick heat that consumes him, that fills him and washes away the bad taste of blood and the sight of angry eyes – Tony thinks it’s real.

It’s real because it’s not vicious.

It’s real this time, because it’s not Steve who is looking down at him.

It’s real because it does not stem from guilt; not on Tony’s part.

This is real because Tony does not have expectations. It’s real because it’s physical, because it is unchartered territory. It’s real because Tony know that the attraction is  _ new _ , that his mind hadn’t had the chance to fuck him over with something that feels - for the first time in what feels like forever - twistedly right. 

And when Bucky carefully moves against him, when he presses their foreheads together and breathes  _ with _ him, all Tony can think of is god, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, I don’t know why I spent the entire week thinking of nothing but you, why I can’t wash off the taste of your mouth against mine, or forget how your hands feel, or the way you just  _ look _ at me like I’m your savior, when I wanted to you gone, when I almost destroyed you. I don’t know why you look at me like I matter, when I will hurt you, I’ll be your ruin and when you realize that, you wouldn’t look at me like that, you’d walk the other way -- and god, I don’t think I have it in me to even handle that anymore -- 

Tony arches off the bed with a shuddered  _ gasp,  _ just Bucky chances he angle of his slow thrusts,  _ dragging _ the motions. 

It  _ shreds _ Tony’s thoughts to pieces, as the severity of the pleasure spreads through his nerves like a dam breaking, washing away the fear and doubt until all that’s left is the feel of that thick cock filling him slowly, driving into him and splitting him open until Tony’s mouth is spilling with the broken syllables of Bucky’s name. It’s in that moment that Tony forgets about being kept together, forgets that he is a Stark and how Stark men, even at their weakest, should always be at the top of their game.

And when Bucky murmurs his name against his ear, when Tony hears those two quiet syllables, he gives up control and that’s what it is all about, isn’t it? Giving up control when you’re always in control, to someone who had been robbed of that privilege for  _ decades _ , his rights bastardized to almost  _ nothing _ \-- you’re giving Bucky control of you and your needs, your body and something so intimate, and personal, because something in you  _ knows _ , deep,  _ deep _ down, that a person who had no control for almost all their life, would cherish what little they get. It’s there in the way he  _ holds _ you, the way he  _ grounds _ you, too, with his lips and the feel of him seated so deep inside you. 

(Or you’re just so  _ desperate _ for something other than the spiraling out of control catastrophe all around you, that you’re willing to buy whatever the Winter Soldier is selling -- because you’re spread too thin, you’re fraying faster and faster around the edges and there’s no time for you recover.)

Tony feels his mouth go slack when Bucky props himself up by his metal arm, dipping his head down and claiming Tony’s lips as  _ grinds _ into him, flesh hand fisting around Tony’s cock and stroking with a gentleness that the Winter Soldier  _ cannot _ possess because he’s the destroyer of lives, the murders, the personification of fear.

Except Bucky is kissing him again and pulling out of him only slam back  _ up _ , leaving Tony in a heady mess as he grips the pillow under his head, thinking that he wants more of that, that he  _ needs _ more of that, and he’s  _ begging _ , stuttered pleas rolling of his tongue that Bucky swallows down as he thrusts long and hard into him, pulling away enough to wrap Tony’s legs around his hips and driving into him, harder and faster, pressing their foreheads together while Tony drows in the depths of Bucky’s dilated pupils, tastes his desperation and swallows it too.

The orgasm hits Tony with an impact that leaves him arching up against the bed, mouth open in a muted  _ cry,  _ lips caught between Bucky’s teeth as heat coats and smears all over their chests and abdomen, Bucky’s fingers squeezing stroking every bit of cum out of Tony.

And then there’s a shudder as Tony feels the heat in his lower back and watches as Bucky’s eyes slide shut and his shoulders curl upwards just as his upper teeth clamps down against his lower lip -- Tony thinks, watching as Bucky comes into his body, fills him with that passion and heat that probably never had the chance to come out in the sun, and he thinks, that maybe, just maybe, it is one of the most attractive things he’s seen on anyone.

Tony watches as Bucky’s lower lip unfurls from under his teeth, watches and Bucky’s eyes flutter open and blue eyes look down at him.

And when the small smile reaches Bucky’s eyes, when that tiny curve tugs ever so gently against the hard lines of the Winter Soldier’s mouth, how it softens the corners of his eyes, how Bucky reaches up with his hand to brush his thumb against the curve of Tony’s brow, Tony remembers no anger, no raging blue-green eyes, no monster.

Because this.

This is not Bucky. This is not the Winter Soldier. This is  _ James _ .

This is going to be a problem later, this is going to be a disaster, stop this now before it gets out of hand, you are a mess, you are walking catastrophe, don’t do this, Tony, don’t, walk away now. 

Tony closes his eyes, feeling his lips tremble as Bucky pulls out of him, cold and warm hands gently tugging and adjusting him until Tony’s temple is pressed against Bucky’s shoulder, and he’s staring at the line of light from underneath the blackout blinds of their room. Tony closes his eyes as all the warning bells continue to flare and blare in the back of Tons mind, a litany of self depreciative warnings. Except it hushes to a slow stop as the world around him dims, and Bucky’s fingers is tracing little circles over his hip, slow and lazy. 

You have no idea what to do with  _ this _ . Or  _ what _ this is. 

And you’re okay with that.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, uh. Yeah. Uhmm... yeah. 
> 
> Thank you for reading? D:


	5. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own BETA. I am sure that despite 100 reads, I have missed a lot of DUH-SO-OBVIOUS typos.

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”  
**― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables**

  
Tony is staring at the clear sky above him, a stretch of majestic blue, cloudless and clear, a salty-sweet breeze ruffling his hair as he reaches with his tiptoes and paddles lightly, an arm thrown over the whale-neck of his flotation ring. Tony recognizes the memory of his childhood, the familiar sight of a family of green sandpipers flying overhead, and landing by the sandy shores of Lankanfushi, the sound of the distant crash of calm waves, soft and foamy, kissing the fine white sandy shoreline. Tony turns to crane his neck from where he is lying on his flotation ring and sees the safety net and boundary line his mother had insisted, so he doesn’t stray or drift too far between their over-water-villa and the beach.

(That property had been an anniversary present to your mother, just after you were born, the first and only year when Howard had shown an outright excitement in carving a little piece of heaven away from the rest of the world for his wife and his newborn son -- it had turned to something your mother had felt bittersweet about; But you? Oh you loved that place. Still do, even if you haven’t seen it in almost four and a half decades. You never went back after that final trip when you had been nine, and you were told that you were starting boarding school in the next school year, once you hit ten.)

Tony remembers this particular trip, he had been five and a half, with the Stark sea plane floating several feet away by the villa’s docking area. It had been the one day he had been allowed to play for _hours_ without condition, with only Jarvis watching him from the sun deck, dressed in his dark navy shorts and pressed white linen shirt. On this particular day, Tony remembers feeding stingrays by the shoreline, remembers lumping a large pile of sand and building what he had hoped would be a sand orca, and then a few feet down the shoreline, he had built a very lopsided sandcastle. Tony also remembers how he had burned under the sun for playing too long and collecting smooth seashells that gleamed like polished ivory under the light, and if you had looked a little closer, you can see the kaleidoscope of a rainbow just under its white surface. He remembers trying to catch the little fish that had strayed too close to the shoreline, remembers falling face first into the water several times, as they slip and dart out of his too-slow reflexes. He remembers lying on the sand and rolling in it, remembers how sand had stuck to his back and chest, how it had clung to his hair and in between his toes and fingers.

Tony _sighs_ at the feel of the warm water, closes his eyes and stops his paddling, until he hears Maria tells him it’s time for dinner and Jarvis tells him to hold on as he tugs the rope attached to his flotation ring, eliciting happy squeals and laughs from his throat as his feet makes ripples and waves as he is pulled back towards the deck. Tony remembers being lifted up, dripping a mess all over, and darting down the polished wooden deck, leaving watery footprints behind, running past Maria with a huffing Jarvis behind asking him to be careful.

Tony remembers sitting in a tub full of suds, and being scrubbed down, remembers the smell of aloe-vera on his shoulders and back and over the bridge of his nose. Most of all, Tony remembers the _surprise_ at seeing Howard at the dinner table, how he had picked Tony up the ground himself and sits Tony beside him at the table. Tony remembers the small quiet smile on his mother’s face, even when Howard had spared him not a second glance after that. He remembers eating his favorite battered shrimp and coconut curry rice and sipping coconut juice out of a shell -- those are always his favorite.

That dinner had been the last family dinner he had with his father at the table for _years_.

It had also been the last night his father had tucked him into bed, pressing a kiss to his crown of curls, as he sits on the side of the bed and waits for him to fall asleep, reading off a Stark Industry folder in silence, fingers rubbing gentle circles over Tony’s scalp.

Tony remembers not wanting to fall asleep, because he had wanted to spend time with dad for as long as he can; he remembers trying _very hard_ to stay awake.

But when Tony opens his eyes in the morning, he knows his father is long gone.

Except when Tony opens his eyes this time to the early morning sun creeping over the Indian Ocean, golden light permeating through the billowing white drapes and gleaming over the wooden floors, Tony sees the Winter Soldier, propped up against the bed’s headboard, shirtless and white sheets pooled around his waist, the sunrise casting a halo against his profile as he reads off the projected text from his phone. Tony watches as the room grows brighter, as the morning light dances over the seam of Bucky’s lower lip, how it makes the tips of his eyelashes golden, and how it makes him look younger, peaceful, the haunted and uncertain look that always sits under his eyes gone and replaced by something a lot more benevolent.

Tony sucks in a breathless breath and watches as Bucky’s eyelashes flutter as he turns to look at him, bathed in the morning light and Tony swears he sees teeth peak out from between his lips, when those lips tugs up into a small smile and Bucky calls out his name.

Tony closes his eyes, feel the syllables of Bucky’s given name roll of his tongue.

And when Tony opens his eyes again, he sees Bucky looking over at him, his phone on his abdomen and the blue glow of the projected text floating in the air, light seeping through the slightly parted drapes, casting a muted glow into the room.

Tony remembers he is in DC and _not_ the Maldives.

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, reaching out with a hand to brush a thumb against Tony’s brow, as Tony carefully shifts from where he is lying on his stomach on the bed, the side of his face smooshed against the pillow.

Tony _hums_ in reply, blinking the sleep away and carefully propping himself up with a soft moan as he feels the comforting faint sting along his backside, slowly rolling himself to his back to stare at the off-white ceiling. There are no wooden paneled ceilings, or its varnish gleam catching in the light, no white lace curtain, just like he knows there is no stretch of ocean beyond the window to his right, or how the sun deck isn’t waiting for him somewhere beyond the bedroom door, with all its teal and mustard yellow cushions. There is no breakfast waiting for him on the white painted dining table, with the glass floors that boasts the wild coral reef underneath their property, where he can watch the comings and goings of the angelfish, barracudas, blennies and the bigeye jacks.

(You’d much rather be there, don’t you?)

“I’m in DC…” Tony mumbles, and cracks an eye open at Bucky, turning his head towards him when he feels the thumb on his brow still.

“Yes, you are.” Bucky asks.

And Tony huffs, because he’s remembering why he is even in DC in the first place, turning to his side so he’s facing Bucky completely, staring at the curve of his jaw and the slightly fading marks on his neck, shoulders and chest. He had a meeting with the Accords’ global representatives, to discuss the recent fall out of their headquarters -- there had been three other bombings in Seoul, Beijing and New Delhi just three days ago, and another one two days prior to that in Tblisi.The media is all over them, calling it a terrorist-mutant attack, which brings in the motion of how some world governments are calling in to fully globalize the mutant registration act.

Tony doesn’t want to think what will happen to the _world_ if the United Nations decides to put the mutant registration into effect.

It would tear the globe in half.

“What time is it?” Tony asks, bringing hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“One-forty.” Bucky answers, and closes the projected text he had been reading from, setting the phone aside. “Hey…”

Tony feels the thumb on his brow again and looks up to see Bucky’s face looming over him. He finds himself looking up into those blue depths that is so clear and so incredibly beautiful, that it reminds him of a memory of a life time ago of a clear blue sky. Tony thinks, _if_ he tries hard enough, he can hear the distant hum of the ocean. It’s so strange and almost pathetically needy of him to think of something that he can no longer half as he looks up into the eyes of the man that, once upon a time, he had wanted to _end_ with his hands.

(Careful, careful, Tony. Careful, careful~)

The knot between Bucky’s brows deepen, eyebrows narrowing briefly as concern tugs on those – now that Tony can actually appreciate it in the afterglow, when he is mellow and feeling dreamily optimistic about things for a change – sharp and handsome features, just as Tony’s gaze drops to the slight swell of Bucky’s lower lip, where there is a healing cut that he hadn’t noticed the night before. He reaches up to press the pad of his thumb against it, traces the slight scab, barely even visible; he doesn’t even remember feeling it against his own the night before.

“Did I hurt you?” Tony asks, fingers tracing the curve of Bucky’s chin and over the still very red marks around his neck; Tony imagines it might have been a bit raw several hours ago.

“No, no, this -- this was Steve.” Bucky says, ducking his head and cheeks coloring. He must have seen how Tony’s eyebrows had gone up to his hairline because there is an unexpected chuckle and a sheepish expression spreading out all over the usually withdrawn face. It changes the man before him, and Tony thinks that it is like looking at the man in the yellowed photographs, a lifetime ago. “We were sparring and the punk got me good. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“James Buchanan Barnes, distracted in a fist fight.” Tony says, cocking one eyebrow. “

“I was thinking of you.” Bucky says, honest and without warning.

The laugh that leaves Tony is sudden and embarrassed, a touch high pitched at the beginning, completely unbecoming of a man of his image, because it is so incredibly dorky, and goofy, before it tapers off into something breathless and filled with mirth at the incredulity of the man looming above him. And it leaves something stuttering somewhere in Tony’s chest, fueling a warmth that starts somewhere around the center of his sternum, fanning out and blooming all over Tony’s cheeks and the tips of his ears. He doesn’t remember feeling this embarrassed about something, not for a very long while, and especially not over a line like _that_. Tony knows it had nothing to do with the words, but with the upfront honesty, how Bucky chooses to not dance around him with words or fleeting glances.

“Geez,” Tony says, bringing the back of his hand to cover the lower half of his face, just as the laughter calms down and he feels the moisture under his eyelids. “Wow, _Barnes_ , does that line ever work for you?”

“I dunno. Haven’t done this in a long while, so you tell me..” Bucky shrugs, and then asks a heartbeat later, “Is it working?” Tony wants to say _yes, you sonofabitch_ , but instead ends up shrugging helplessly, blinking away the amusement and embarrassment – or tries to, at least.

“You are a piece of work.” Tony says, in a tone that isn’t unkind or mocking, and just barely touching affectionate.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, not for a long time, his thumb continuously caressing Tony’s brow in a gentle caress. Tony watches as he sucks in a slow breath, and swallows, before he whispers, “I’d like to kiss you…”

Tony doesn’t even think when he reaches up and cards his fingers against the long locks, palm settling on the back of Bucky’s head and tugging him down. And just like that, he is lost in the warmth and the affection, the slow glide of Bucky’s tongue against his, the feel of his teeth against his lower lip, the cool fingers against his scalp and the slow slide of warm skin against when Bucky carefully shifts to straddle his legs, deepening the kiss and leaving Tony heady with breathlessness. Tony doesn’t have time to think or let his mind wander when Bucky _consumes_ the way he does, when he kisses him like he’s a starved man, like it’s a dying wish, because when Bucky kisses, Tony thinks the world is something far, far away, and that _nothing matters_.

It makes him crave more.

Want more.

 _Need_ _more_.

(Careful, careful, Tony~)

And when Bucky pulls away with parted lips and breathing raggedly, chest heaving just as much as Tony’s, hair tousled and cheeks, neck and chest flushed from the passion that is an all-consuming fire, Tony feels _need_ stab him in the gut – suddenly he’s yanking Bucky against him again, mashing their mouths together and flipping the larger man off him, so it’s Tony who is on top of him, Tony who is pressing his scarred chest against Bucky’s. He sinks his teeth against that incredibly warm lip, bites down hard enough that he hears the throaty moan rumble in Bucky’s throat, just as his hands _grip_ Tony by his sides, adding more bruising to the myriad of still healing ones from the night before. And Tony feels the flesh hand slide to his front, drag a warm and shaky line that cuts down to his abdomen and lower belly, fist forming around his cock in a wanting _squeeze_ that leaves Tony _keening_ against Bucky’s mouth that slacks against his own, dark lashes fluttering as that blue gaze shifts up to meet Tony’s gaze.

Tony kisses him again, hips jerking into that fist, pre-cum spilling into Bucky’s fingers and really, Tony knows he needs to stop, that he can’t spend the entire day rutting in bed with a man who isn’t exactly resisting either. The world is calling, and had this been a good ten years ago, maybe Tony would have said fuck it. He would have told the world to wait and indulge in the raw carnal pleasures.

Except Bucky’s cellphone starts to ring, disturbing the silence, a nagging reality that Tony tries, so, _so_ very hard to ignore by trailing a tongue down Bucky’s chin to his neck, where sinks his teeth against the soft flesh that makes Bucky _hiss_ and arch against him just the tiniest bit, because Tony is starting to hate that fucking ringtone.

The call goes straight to automated hands-free voicemail and Bucky must have had the play voicemail messages in hands-free mode because Steve’s voice cuts through the haze like a hot knife through butter:

_Hey Buck, we’re being assigned active training schedule with new recruits and signees. Call me when you get this._

Tony holds very _still_ with his face buried against Bucky’s neck, feeling his libido slowly die down until the weight of exactly what he had done in the past twenty four hours settles in a pool of dread somewhere in his stomach. Tony pulls away, except he doesn’t get very far because Bucky holds him place, holds him in what feels like a gesture that bespoke vulnerability.

It’s so _strange,_ especially now that Tony had slipped on his big boy glasses of the world on.

Tony allows it and when he shifts just the tiniest bit, Bucky’s voice cracks a soft, “Wait.”

“James…”

“Just a minute, please.” Bucky murmurs in a Tony that makes something in Tony’s chest _clench_ ; Tony feels him shudder with a deep inhale, feels him release it slowly like he’s measuring it before his arms around him loosens and Tony looks down at him.

“He doesn’t know I’m here.” Bucky says and his gaze flickers away, like he’s _ashamed._

(Well, now.)

Which in and of itself is a surprise, and makes Tony wonder. “I don’t care.” Tony says, and feels like it’s partly a lie, now that the can of worms is open.

(Well, _well_ , now.)

“Will I see you again?” Bucky says, and carefully sits up, hands on Tony’s hips. Tony feels his skin break with goosebumps as the nervousness settles because this is the moment of truth. Bucky must have seen how his face had dropped into something that looks uncertain, something that looks mildly panicked and alarmed, because his hands are on Tony’s face. “Hey, hey – it’s okay. I understand. World’s busiest man, right?”

“It’s not that…”

Tony gets an armful of the Winter Soldier then, warmth enveloping him as Bucky buries his face against his neck and embraces him in what almost feels like a goddamn goodbye. Something wells in the depths of Tony’s throat as he comes to that realization and before he reciprocates the embrace, before the unbridled _need_ to want to hold on too registers itself in his mind and his thoughts catch up to it, Bucky is already pulling away.

“I better get ready,” Bucky says, softly with one last caress against Tony’s cheek, and just like that they are untangling themselves from each other and Tony is left kneeling on the bed watching as Bucky picks up one of the folded towels in the corner of the room, throwing it over his shoulder.

Bucky is in the middle of picking up his clothes off the floor when Tony finds himself getting up in a daze - _because wait just a minute, just one more minute -_ and crosses the distance between them, heart racing under his ribcage, grabbing Bucky by the wrist and turning him around so he can kiss him, once more time.

Just one more time.

Then he’ll let go.

Except Tony doesn’t.

Nor does he put a stop to things when they stumble across the room towards the shower, nor does he step away or protest when Bucky picks him up under the warm spray, hooks his legs around his waist as Tony feels fingers against his entrance, gentle and almost hesitant.

One more time, Tony tells himself, and that’ll be that. They’ll dress, they’ll part ways and it’ll be over.

Tony repeats it like a mantra in his mind and just when he thinks he’s got himself convinced of his fool-proof plan, he feels that very desperate promise come apart in to a million pieces just as Bucky carefully slides his cock into him and the wet tiles squeak under his back from the rush and heat of it all, and he’s staring into the blue depths, breathless and forgetting what and who he is again and again and again.

(Careful, careful, Tony~)

\--

 

Bucky knows his face betrays no emotion and no information or even the smallest hint of where he had been and what he had done. Even after Clint makes a wise crack about him ‘getting some ass’, when Scott had simply _smiled_ at him and Sam had wiggled his eyebrows at him, Bucky knows he had simply _looked_ at them and had given them a shrug. He doesn’t confirm nor does he deny, leaves it to his still healing and recovering team to draw their own conclusions. He allows them to poke fun every once in a while for days since his return to the compound and his assisting the new recruits with their training, takes it all with a little grain of salt.

Scott, Clint and Sam aren’t a problem.

But Steve, apparently, is.

Not that Steve had said _anything_ ; Bucky is aware that the ‘problem’ is mostly coming from his side, because he cannot look at Steve in the eye and give him a straight answer as to where he had been. It’s not like Steve had asked where he had been, why he had missed training and everything else after, or why he hadn’t returned the call sooner. Bucky had returned to the compound just as the sun had started to set over DC, with Tony insisting he gives him a ride, even when the Compound had been completely out of his way. Bucky knows that it’s only a matter of time before word spreads around, and sooner or later, someone would mention off hand that he had arrived in a Mercedes. Instead, Steve had only asked him _one_ question: _hey, you doing all right there, Buck?_

And Bucky had replied with a _yeah I’m all right_ , when the words should have been, _never better_.

Steve had given him a long look, and Bucky knows he is trying to form words, trying to say more, wanting to ask more because Bucky is aware that since his return, doing something like _this_ – disappearing, distracted, not returning calls, not caring – is not something he usually does. Bucky wouldn’t blame his team – wouldn’t blame Steve – if he thinks that Bucky is losing his marbles and that Hydra’s programming may have had a hand in it.

But Steve had said nothing after that, simply smiled at him in that hooded way that Bucky recognizes, clapped him on the shoulder and started talking to him about the new recruits they’re going to train with for a few hours in the next upcoming weeks.

The topic of his sudden disappearance doesn’t come up again.

And Bucky, well, he doesn’t hear from Tony after that for a while. Corridor whispers tells him that Tony had come in for his meetings and had left with the King of Wakanda. Bucky catches glimpses of him on the news, looking sharp and so goddamn attractive each time, but that had been it. It had been complete radio silence between them and really, Bucky knows better. He isn’t a fool nor is he blind; he had seen the struggle on Tony’s face that day when he had asked him if he would get to see him again. He had seen the hesitation, the walls, the uncertainty, and he _understands_.

What they share between them is complicated.

Sometimes, complicated things are better left alone locked away in the back of a high cabinet, forgotten and hidden because what else is there to do?

(You would never force him into something he doesn’t want; you know what that feels like. It had been your life for a very, _very_ long time. And just because you feel drawn to him, regardless of how he had _clung_ to you, how he had kissed you and how he had said your name over and over again that night, it doesn’t mean that he feels the same. You should be okay with that. It’s more than you deserve.)

Bucky eventually stops the habitual glancing and checking of his phone, even though his mind still wanders in the middle of conversations he does not have any interest in taking part in.

Until one day, he is caught off guard when he hears Tony is in the compound and sees him from almost an acre away, walking into one of the head offices, with Natasha, Vision and Rhodey with him. He sees him again later in the evening, crossing paths as Bucky trails after Steve to file assessment reports.

“Tony!” Steve greets, genuinely glad to see him because they hardly cross paths anymore. Bucky can see the spark in Steve’s eye; he also does not miss how Tony’s gaze lingers on the good Captain’s face, and isn’t that _something_. “Hey.”

“Hey Cap. James.” Tony returns the greeting, and when their gazes lock, James Buchanan Barnes, for the life of him _, cannot_ look away.

“H-Hey,” He manages to say eventually. Bucky opens his mouth to says something, but his lips doesn’t move, his throat doesn’t budge.

Bucky knows Steve is saying something, talking about the new recruits, he knows that Natasha and Rhodey joins them in the corridor, and sometime later, Vision appears somewhere behind him; yet all Bucky is capable of is his tunnel vision and a razor sharp focus on the creases on Tony’s suit, how he had his jacket against his left arm, and how the tie hangs in a half assed knot around his neck. All he notices are the deeper lines under Tony’s eyes, the slouch in his shoulders and the strain around the length of his neck, how his jaw is tight with chronic tension that goes all the way down to his arms.

The man before is nothing like the man he had woken up with weeks ago.

When Bucky blinks, Tony does to and Bucky watches him turn his attention back to what Steve is saying and asks about the team’s recovery. They talk for a few minutes, exchanging pleasantries, with Rhodey asking him about his new arm, and how the training with the new recruits are going.

It is Natasha’s steady and hooded gaze that makes Bucky pause and he knows her ability, knows how she can pick up on the smallest of things, know that even now, as he meets with her gaze head on, that she is picking him apart like a spider watching her prey.

“Where are you both staying?” Steve asks.

“The usual. Park Hyatt. Georgetown.” Rhodey answers.  

“Oh?” Steve cannot hide his surprise and looks over at Tony. When Tony questions the look with a cock of his eyebrow. “I just thought you’d pick The Jefferson.”  

“Uhh, because I’m the star spangled man with a plan and I like to gaze upon the White House before going to bed at night? Sure.” Tony’s tone is flat and dry and when Steve gives him a come-on look, Tony just rolls his eyes, while Rhodey tries to keep a straight face.

“If you both have time, Natasha is staying for dinner with the rest of the team. Would you three like to join us?” Steve asks, and sounds hopeful.

“I won’t be able to for the time being, for I must, unfortunately, return to the Triskellion. Perhaps, another time, Captain?” Vision answers, and when Steve nods, Vision excuses himself and leaves the group with so much of a look behind him.

“Love to, Cap, but I got a wife waiting back at the hotel and I’m supposed to go pick up a tub of Ben and Jerry’s on the way back.” Rhodey says, and that elicits a chuckle out of Tony and Natasha. Rhodey wordlessly accepts the car keys that Tony hands over to him. “See you in the morning, then?”

“Hmmm,” Tony says, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Lead the way, Captain.”

Bucky is forced to follow them, walking behind Tony and feeling like he wants to reach out and say something, say _anything_.

He doesn’t.

\--

Tony feels displaced.

They are seated under the glow of the halogen lights of the mess hall, Chinese takeout boxes spread out on the stretch of the faux-wooden table, along with beer and soda cans, crumpled napkins and disposable chopstick wrappers. Towards the corner, there is a small pile of unopened fortune cookies, along with a few ignored and stacked containers of sauces. Tony had taken a few bites of his meal before calling it quits. His stomach isn’t agreeing with anything lately, especially not the grease.

He gives up sometime later, pushing his box of barely touched rice and orange shrimp away from him and nursing a can of beer instead. And in between small sips that he eventually stops all together because even the beer isn’t agreeing with him, he watches the team interact with each other. Sam manages to get around on crutches, but Clint still remains in a wheelchair; they look more like themselves than they had several weeks ago after the being brought home after the bomb blast and a part of Tony is glad that they are doing well. They certainly bicker and argue about television series the same way they had all those years ago.

And it is exactly _that_ reason that makes Tony feel he is an outsider watching the entire exchange happen before him.

Once upon a time, he too had taken part in debates and character discussion, had started contests about musical legends, had spoken the way Clint speaks _now_ about The Rollingstones and all this conversation, all these _pass me the soy sauce_ or next time, order your own wontons, or the, _I dunno why you bother ordering egg-drop soup, it’s just flavored water_ , is just a constant reminder of the things he had long lost, and the things that he is far too afraid of being a part of again.

(You _miss_ this.)

“Hey, Stark, you gonna eat that?” Clint asks, pointing at Tony’s box with a chopstick.

“All yours.” Tony pushes the box towards Clint, who takes it and pokes through it.

“Hey, you sure? You barely touched this.” Clint asks, one more time.

“I’m sure.” Tony says and sets the beer can’t seem to drink on the table, done with his three bites worth of a measly dinner.

And then, like clockwork, like Tony had not even separated from the team at all, the _concerns_ drops in its usual mother-henning Steve Rogers style.

“Tony…” Steve says. It is _all_ he needs to say.

“I knew a guy in prison, once; he had his stomach removed because the ulcers got so bad.” Scott says.

“Oh hey, I knew someone like that too, long time ago!” Sam pipes.

“People can survive without their stomachs.” Natasha quips. “And a few organs, too.”

“Guys,” Steve says, as the topic of the conversation continues to take a morbid turn. “Tony, would you like to have something else? We can –“

“It’s all right, Cap, calm your horses. I’m _okay_. I’m not _dying_. I’m not gonna drop on the ground again.” Tony says, rolling his eyes.

“That’s _not_ funny.” Steve frowns. “You _know_ that’s not funny.”

“It kind of is.” Tony mumbles. “I didn’t agree to sit here just so that you can baby me in front of _your_ team.”

“They’re your team –“

“So why are you here, then?” Bucky cuts off, raising his voice just a little bit to drown out the words leaving Steve’s mouth, effectively silencing the words that holds little to no truth. Except what follows hits the softer parts of Tony, the bits that make him _almost_ flinch. “You’re one of the world busiest men, after all.”

And Tony just _sits_ there, attention snapping to the one face he had been trying _so hard_ not to keep looking at because _goddamn him_ , Tony can’t seem to look away. He is drawn in by the clear blue gaze, helpless like a moth to a flame, and it’s like no time between them had passed at all, like the nights where Tony had woken up alone several times searching for the warmth that he knows he should _not_ – _hell fucking no -_ depend on had not happened.

(Stop it.)

Tony feels the words die in his throat before they can even form, as he takes in the five o’clock shadow on Bucky’s jaw, the curve of his lips and the steady hold of his gaze. Tony doesn’t recognize himself on most days, too occupied with meetings, with delegations, with Stark Industries, and god, the fucking _politics_ of it all. But on the rare days that he _does_ , they are usually moments of his time between the sheets and in the Winter Soldier’s arms, and with it, a pocketful of fond memories that Tony hadn’t been given the privilege to reminiscence for a very, _very_ long time. He doesn’t know why or how, or when it had started to happen, except that it does. He cannot comprehend it, because he doesn’t want to, and instead of analyzing the studying the pattern of his emotional behavior, Tony leaves it to fester in what little space he had left between work, stress and politics, giving it full freedom to manifest in whatever shape it sees fit.

(That’s _your_ mistake, _right there_.)

_Because the truth is, I don’t know why I’m here, sitting and wanting to eat my favorite and usual order – except I can’t because I can hardly keep anything down these days. I don’t know why I’m sitting here listening to all of these people talk, my former teammates, people I care for and would do almost anything for, act and engage around me like the Civil War never happened. I should **not** be here. I don’t know what to do with the fact that Sam gives a fuck, or Clint gives a rat’s ass, or that Steve – if he had known, if I had told him how I’ve loved him for nearly all my life, how I still do – would have stayed. I am stuck here in the middle of this storm of shit and I can’t process it. And then – then there’s you. The one thing I still can’t seem to figure out. You’re all I think about when I have moments to think of something for myself for a change. You’re the pause in the storm of shit that I’m in the middle of, that I can’t get out of, and I don’t know what to make of that. So I don’t know._

(Stop don’t think about, stop, stop, stopit, stopit, stopit!)

“I don’t know, Barnes.” Tony says, a little too sharply. “You tell me.” The phone vibrating in his pocket cuts through the thick silence. Tony sees Pepper’s number on the screen and stands up, chair scraping against the floor. “Excuse me.”

“Tony…” Steve calls out.

But Tony isn’t listening, because he is answering the call and heading for the glass doors to step outside, putting some distance between himself and the team as Pepper returns to him with the results of a contract agreement she had been trying to get her hands on for the past six months. Tony hears the positive results and starts seeing number, lowering himself on a bench and keeping the phone pressed to his ear as he goes through a brief brain storming session with easily, one of his most favorite people in the world. Talking about work comes easily, strategizing business deals and his newly acquired law knowledge is like reciting the alphabet. It’s familiar and ingrained and requires no struggle whatsoever. He had lost count of how many times he had gone out of his way to seek her out, just so that he can talk about his inventions and upgrades and the new marketing strategy they are planning to roll out. He actively engages with her just to hear her talk numbers that isn’t so hard to comprehend, because numbers, well, numbers Tony can _do_. Numbers aren’t complicated.

He had subconsciously looked towards Pepper as his reason for pause.

Before his tumble with the Winter Soldier, at least.

“Tony, it’s going to be great!” Pepper says, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice.

“It is. And it’s all you; this is your little baby, Pep.” Tony answers, voice lacing with affection and so much pride at the hard work Pepper had invested in the company. And a part of him, deep down, the dark sticky mucky part that he refuses to pay attention to, thinks that Stark Industries is in the best hands possible should anything happen to him.

“Is everything all right, Tony?” Pepper asks.

“Always,” Tony answers, unsure. He’s never sure anymore, these days.

“You know I don’t believe you, right?”

“I know.” Tony drops his face into his palms, rubbing at his face before carefully applying pressure against an eye. “But you’re going to have to for now, all right, Miss Potts? Trust me when I say I’m still trying to do the good work, here.”

“You always are, Tony. I don’t have any doubts about that.” Pepper says and Tony hears the affection, hears the love behind the words that for a moment, feels so familiar and grounding.

“What would I do without you, Pep.” Tony murmurs.

“Probably tied up to some crazed stalker’s basement and being sued by several models, I’d imagine.” Pepper chuckles, and that gets a good _laugh_ out of Tony, as he remembers the few times someone had tried to pin him with a legal suit because he hadn’t called back after the first date. He also remember show Pepper had taken care of the metaphorical trash so to speak, how she had single handedly handled the PR disaster that had been the result of Tony’s issues and misgivings. He is never proud of those days, regardless of how much fun he had; the fun had only ever lasted for a few seconds, anyway. “Would that be all, Mister Stark?”

Tony feels the smile linger on his lips as he closes his eyes at the familiarity of those words; it’s their little private joke now, just him and Pepper and no one else. “That’ll be all, Miss Potts.”

Pepper murmurs a good night and the line disconnect, leaving Tony there sitting on a bench, and looking at the glow of his phone’s home screen until the screensaver appears and the phone automatically locks itself. When he looks up, Steve is standing a little to his left, holding a steaming mug that he offers to Tony. The warm porcelain against his cold fingers is a comfort.

“Chamomile. Should help a little bit.” Steve says.

“Thanks,” Tony gives him a smile that doesn’t quite form before he looks at the tea.

“He doesn’t mean harm,” Steve says, hesitant.

“I know. I’m not taking it personally.” Tony responds with what feels like a lie. “It’s not his fault – it’s no one’s fault. I’m dealing a hand that’s far too big for me to handle. Not that I don’t enjoy a challenge but, you know.”

“I’ve wanted to talk, Tony…”

“No time like the present, then. Come on, Uncle Steve, sit your ass down next to Uncle Tony and tell me all your troubles.” Tony pats the bench beside him and carefully takes a slow sip of his tea. He listens to Steve shuffle and hesitantly take a seat beside him, feels the warmth radiating from him and hears the quiet sigh. Steve doesn’t talk immediately, and Tony is about half way through the cup of tea that reminds him of diluted dish soap when Steve finally forms words.

“I do miss you, Tony.” The words are enough to make Tony look up and turn to face Steve like a deer caught in headlights. “Don’t look at me like that – I do. All things said and done, we had some good days, didn’t we?”

Tony thinks of their first Christmas together, thinks of their banters and the silly theories they would constantly come up with on Mjolnir, he thinks of the birthdays and Thanksgivings, the countless dinners and how well synced they had been in the field, how fighting back to back with Captain America had been fluid, _graceful_. He thinks of the quiet mornings they had to themselves, when they would sit across each other and nurse a cup of coffee, no words between them but comfortable silence and that grateful gaze that had been directed at him, absent of malice and full so many things Tony did not _dare_ to think more of at the time.

(Because hope is a dangerous thing.)

“We did.” Tony says, and feels his chest pinch with the phantom pain of his failing heart. There are days where the pinch feels hard enough for him to spread his palm over his chest, a useless attempt to calm something that isn’t physical, but psychological. Now is one of those moments. “They were good days, Steve.”

“You’ll call me naïve, but…” Steve sighs and leans back on the bench, cranes his neck up to look at the evening sky. “…a part of me wonders if you’ll ever be part of the team again. Like before. Fighting all evils with Iron Man in the sky. With Tony Stark watching your back. I’m – I’m glad you stayed for dinner. I really am, Tony. Hell, I’m glad we can talk like this without arguing. I’ll admit, I miss the arguing too, sometimes.”

Tony can hear the nostalgia, can see it glaze over like a murky reflection on the surfaces of Steve’s eyes. “It’s never going to be like before. And maybe it’s better this way. Maybe you’re right; locks shouldn’t be replaced. You and I…” Tony looks at his hands and thinks back to the weeks he had spent under a foreign spell, thinks back to the countless hours of footage he had poured over, had reviewed and had committed to memory. He thinks back to the days prior to Rhodey’s wedding, the one fight where the team had assembled with no agenda, no drama and only with the purpose to defeat the monster that had ruined their one night of fun together. “Did you know that when Fury was recruiting, Iron Man made the cut but not Tony Stark? I was offered the position of a consultant. Not necessarily an active member of the initiative.”

“Sometimes an assessment isn’t exactly fair. Having you around was an effective decision –“

“I was foreseen to be a toxic thing.”

“Tony –“

“I’m just stating facts here. What I’m doing now is what I should have been doing from the beginning. Consulting, keeping a hand on the wheel, assisting the team from the ground and _if need be_ , from the sky. But only when extremely necessary. You had War Machine then, and now you have Captain Marvel, the Wasp and Vision. With SHIELD’s specialized agents also part of the roster, you’re never going to run out of options. I’m the backup fire power _if needed_.”

“You _are_ an Avenger.” Steve says, with conviction. “Tony, you’re _not_ replaceable.”

“I’m _volatile_.” Tony answers, “don’t deny. You know it. As Captain, you had known –“

“Tony, _come on_.”

“—the entire time. Ultron was the result of the fear of seeing the entire team _slaughtered_ , of seeing _you_ dead, you accusing me of not doing more and I –“ Tony blinks when he realizes _what_ had just rolled past his tongue, stares at Steve and mirrors the stricken look on his face.

“Oh my god, Tony.” Steve says, horror dawning on his face, all color draining from it.

“Well, not that it matters, right?” Tony says, in an attempt to protect himself from the sudden vulnerability he is feeling, of being so exposed to the man who had spent _weeks_ caring for him, and treating him like he had been the single most important existence in the _world_. “Ultron happened and the team ended up breaking apart, anyway…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Steve asks, softly. “If you would just talk to me… say _something_ , **_anything_**.”

“Like _what_ , Steve?” Tony looks at his cup. “That my biggest fear was seeing the team gone? That I was _dependant_ on the team? That seeing you dead had fueled the biggest disaster and casualty of the new century? Nothing can _justify_ that Steve. Not even my love for you.” Tony feels his chest pinch again and this time, his hand fists against his shirt. “I remember. I _remember_ everything. I had to. You know, Rhodey was getting married and I didn’t want to fuck that up for him. God knows I’ve screwed up so many things for him for the past four decades. So I had to remember. _Everything_. Ended up being a shitty wedding speech, anyway, if you ask me.”

Steve’s hands are on his, keeping the cup steady because it’s shaking in Tony’s grip. Tony watches as Steve moves to kneel before him on the ground, takes the cup away from his grip to set it on the bench. And Tony’s hands are like ice in between the warmth of Steve’s palms; Tony looks at the difference between them and feels his chest pinch harder at something that he knows is long lost and gone. Once upon a time, maybe, the warmth he feels in his hand would have been something Tony thinks he’d think about holding on to.

Once upon a time.

“Do you remember _me_?” Steve asks, eyes glistening with hope that Tony thinks he doesn’t deserve; the blue-green sea should not look up at Tony stark like _that_.

“Yes.” Tony answers and watches the relief flood all over Steve’s face; it is heartbreaking. Tony gives a meek shrug. “Did you mean it? What you said that day, before Strange came in to restore time-order…”

And Tony’s heart shatters to a thousand pieces when he sees the saddest smile grace Steve’s features, how his eyes brims with so much regret, like opening Pandora’s box. Everything just rises to the surface, unbidden and intense and god, his chest _hurts_. It hurts so damn much that Tony feels it slowly collapsing inwards, like billions of shrapnel forcing it further against the back of his ribcage, until it feels like there is a gaping hole sitting in the middle of his chest. Tony finds himself shaking his head at the answer right before, like he doesn’t want to hear Steve finally say:

“Yes.” Steve _chokes_ , “Every word.” Steve inches a little closer from where he is kneeling on the ground, hand gripping Tony’s hands tighter, almost desperate. “I know why you did what you did that Christmas morning – I _know_ , Tony. And I don’t know if you’d believe me if I told you how I wish things had happened differently. If I had just…”

“Would it have made a difference? If you had known, that all this time…” Tony shrugs, so wretchedly helpless and when Steve looks at him just as equally helpless, Tony laughs mirthlessly and dips his head, sucking in a struggling breath that reminds him of the night his heart had finally given in and just decided to call it quits. “A part of me still thinks you would have left anyway. Even if you had known .”

“Tony –“

“And maybe that’s how it’ll always play out. James _needs_ someone to _always_ be on his side of the court. No matter what. And that’s _you_ , Steve.” Tony looks up then and sees the tears running down Steve’s face, the pallid pallor of his complexion as he shakes his head and swallows past the tightness in his throat. “Just like how, no matter what you do, no matter your choices, I’m always going to be on your side of the court. I will _always_ have your back, even when it looks like I don’t; you should know better by now. I’ve proven that you, haven’t I?” Steve doesn’t say anything, bringing up the back of his hand to cover the sound the tries to come out of his throat, instead. “ _Haven’t I?”_

Tony closes his eyes when he feels Steve’s arms wrap themselves around him, and he lets the good Captain have his moment of weakness, hears the choked _yes_ muffle against his shoulder and feels something come apart then. What Tony holds in his hands now, feels like long lost moments and missed opportunities. He sees the embodiment of his suffering and _want_ , his reason to always want to do good because Tony knows no better. He looks into the blue-green depths of Steve’s eyes and feels the _want_ to try, just one more time.

“Am I too late?” Steve asks.

In ten seconds, Tony comes to the realization that he’d be fulfilling a lifelong want and desire if he tells Steve that no, you’re not too late, I’ve loved you all my life, I don’t think that’s going away any time soon. Even after you’ve beaten me, left me, chose to see my wrongdoings first before everything else, held my choices and fears against me – I still love you anyway, because I know no better. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? There are too many expectations, too many hidden agendas, too much history that can’t be washed off – it’s not your fault, not entirely. I’m part of the problem, too. But we can work past it, can’t we? We’re stronger together than we are apart, aren’t we?

(Are you?)

And in five seconds after that, Tony finds himself turning to look behind him, at the stretch of glass and the remnants of the team sharing a pint of ice cream between them. He sees the Winter Soldier stand up and meet his gaze briefly, before he leaves the mess hall all together; Tony thinks then, when he turns to look and meet Steve’s wide eyed gaze, with the slightest hint of alarm in them, that maybe, _yes, you’re too late because we’re not very strong together other than in the field. We may be better together as a team, but our differences will always get in the way. Your ability to never be able to look away when things are going south and my ability to always want to fix things immediately, as fast as possible without heed of consequences will always be our downfall. And maybe the reason I am still standing now with some parts of my heart somehow still holding itself together is because there wasn’t an **us** back then in the Civil War. Maybe I survived **that** because you didn’t know I loved you, or how much you meant to me because if you had, by god, if you knew, and there was an **us** , and you still left me, if you had done everything the same way armed with that knowledge, if I had given you **all** of me before that entire clusterfuck, I don’t think I would have survived. I don’t think I would have fought my impending death so viciously. You would have taken away the very reason I wanted to live, to prove a point, to prove to you that I’m not a piece of shit after all, and maybe I wouldn’t even be here… right?_

 _(_ Try as hard as Tony might, Tony’s always going to lose the fight~)

“I don’t know...” Tony answers, and shakes his head with the realization of his thoughts, at the taunt that finally starts its whispering somewhere at the back of his mind, bringing with it an uncontrollable wave of nausea.

“Is it Bucky?” Steve asks, and Tony watches the good Captain’s heart break all over his face when Tony doesn’t answer.

“I’m not sure…” Tony answers, _honest_ , and unable to lie before that involuntarily shattering expression; he knows what it’s like to be lied to, to hide the few things one had the right to know. Tony knows it firsthand. He wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone else.

Steve’s lips trembles just the tiniest bit, before he huffs out a strangled exhale that betrays the storm under that pitiful attempt of a smile he tries to form to hold himself together. It fails and falls flat, and Tony can only smile weakly as he watches Steve close his eyes and duck his head. Tony reaches forward then with both his hands to cup Steve’s face, brushing his thumbs against his cheeks to wipe the tear tracks lining it. Steve’s cheeks are warm and smooth from the clean shave, and Tony knows for a fact that Steve grooms like any dedicated military man in the early forties. This close, Tony can smell the lingering cool scent of his aftershave and god, looking at Steve this close, with no boundaries between them, with Steve not holding anything back, wearing his heart on his sleeve – it’s hard to not feel just the tiniest bit bitter.

(You still can? Who says it’s too late?)

“Are _we_ okay?” Steve asks, and Tony feels like a wretched little thing because false promises are never the start of a good thing.

“We have to be,” Tony murmurs and when Steve carefully nods and pulls away then, Tony leaves him, hands dropping back to his knees. Tony can only stare at the tips of his fingers tremble weakly, before he stops it all together by balling a fist.

“I’m here for you, Tony.” Steve says and it makes Tony look up with a bit of a startled jerk, eyes wide at the words, only to be met with the promising gaze and a fire in Steve eyes so fierce it takes his breath away. It’s the legendary determination that blinds the enemies, the kind that makes you weak in the knees, just like all the stories that had been told for generations. And Tony is standing right in front of it, and it’s all _his_ , Steve willingly handing it to him. “I will always be here for you. And I will wait for the day where _we_ can be completely _okay_. However long it takes, I _will_ wait for you.”

“That’s a dangerous promise…”

“I told you years ago, didn’t I? I’m good at waiting.” Steve tries to push some humor into the words, except that it falls flat and leaves a bitter taste in both their palate. “I should go, help Clint and Sam back to their rooms.”

“Yeah,” Tony nods, and watches as Steve hesitates to reach out, watches as the fingers curl into a fist instead before Steve turns around and leaves, ducking his head and stepping back into the mess hall.

Tony doesn’t look behind him, he doesn’t even bother to get up from the bench until the noise behind him disappears and he’s all by himself. He is careful when he pulls the cellphone out of his pocket, fluid in unlocking the screen and typing a two word sentence that says it _all_ before his thumb trembles over the send button. It takes two seconds for him to switch screens and hit the call button instead, counts five rings before he hears Bucky’s voice at the end of the line, thick and raspy.

“Yeah?”

“He knows.” Tony says, quiet, and hushed, just like the _silence_ on the other end of the line that follows after the sharp inhale. Tony cannot stop himself from feeling just the tiniest bit betrayed when he gets no reaction other than the silence. He swallows thickly and manages to murmur, “Good night, James.”

The call ends.

And like always, Tony stands up and crosses the lawn in the dark by himself; it’s better this way anyway. It’s something _familiar_ to him and right now, Tony can _handle_ familiar.

\--

Yet sometimes, the people you want to leave behind doesn’t want to be left behind.

Bucky knows Tony is long gone by the time the words hit home and he’s grabbing his keys and pulling his shoes and shirt on. Bucky knows that he shouldn’t be opening his door, shouldn’t be turning down the hallway and stuffing his keys and wallet into his pocket and heading down the elevators. He knows he should just return to his room and leave things for Steve to handle it.

Because that is what Steve had done that evening, right? When he had followed Tony outside and had taken the opportunity to finally talk? When Steve should have taken that opportunity months ago during Rhodey’s reception, just like how Bucky had told him to, had practically _begged_ him to.

Bucky comes to a sharp halt when he sees Steve step out of the elevator, he too coming to a grinding halt at the sight of Bucky leaving.

And there they are, in a standstill with no words between them. Bucky can see the harsh lines around the corners of Steve’s eyes, and once upon a time, Steve had worn the same expression when he had heard that Bucky had made it into the army, while he had nothing but a measly faded 4F stamp to be oh so proud of. There had been other moments too, when Steve’s weakness and illness, no matter how hard he had tried to bury it, the bitterness of it had caught up. It had been there after Sarah’s funeral too, when Bucky had asked Steve to come home with him, when Steve had taken the invitation for warmth and company as an insult, a reminder of his weakness and grief.

Steve looks at him the same way now, tries to bury it with a lowered gaze as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. Steve takes out one of them and tosses what Bucky knows is his motorbike key towards him. Bucky can only stare at the small thing sitting in the middle of his palm, swallows past the knot of _something_ in his throat as Steve walks past him without a word, walking down the hallway towards his room., and all Bucky can do is stand there frozen, drowning in the sound of his heart racing.

Until he’s not.

Bucky races towards the parking lot and finds Steve’s motorbike, takes out the spare visors from the saddlebag, and doesn’t look back when he pulls out of the parking lot and leave the compound behind. He is sure that Steve’s number plate will clock up a few speeding violations as he maneuvers through traffic and bypasses other motorists to get to Georgetown. And when he does arrive, looking a little rushed and haggard from the rushed trip, when he walks past the door man and finds Marla at the desk, he is told that Mister Stark hasn’t arrived yet for the evening.

And Bucky finds himself unsure of how to respond to either wait or accept the extra card key, because Marla had his name on the list of safe guests to allow up to Mister Stark’s suite. Bucky doesn’t even know _when_ he had become a part of an apparently existing list but he shakes his head and tells Marla he’ll wait, and proceeds to stew in one of the lobby chairs, keeping an eye on the entrance. The minutes feel like hours and as Bucky takes the time to calm down from the rush, to fully assess exactly what the hell he had just done in a whim. But then everything these days and everything that involves Tony Stark balances on a _whim_ , hasn’t it? And having a whim, let alone acting upon a whim, is something Bucky had been denied for the longest time. It makes him wonder if he indulges in it because of the rush he gets, the spontaneity of it, the _freedom_ of being able to do so.

The _choice_.

(Well, that wouldn’t be too fair if that is your sole reason, right? It’s almost cruel, getting off on a rush on someone else’s expense.)

Yet the moment the doors open and he hears Tony’s voice, the moment Bucky looks up and watches as Tony freezes right there in the middle of golden gleam of lobby lighting, with the cherry blossom glass work casting a pink glow all over his cheeks, Bucky _stops_ thinking all together and carefully stands up, licking his suddenly dry lips. A part of him isn’t sure if the relief he sees on Tony’s face is a trick of the light, or if it had even crossed his expression at all, but he follows Tony, across the lobby and towards the elevators. He stands quietly with his hands on his sides, staring at the floor until the doors part open and he walks in Tony’s shadow. And the moment the suite door opens and their privacy is sealed with the hushed click of the mechanized door, Bucky reaches out for Tony’s shoulders, feels the shudder coarse through Tony’s frame and wraps his arms around him like how he had been _wanting_ to, _needing_ too ever since he had stepped out of Tony’s car all those weeks ago.

Bucky _inhales_ that familiar scent _deeply_ , feels his lungs expand with it, and before he can say anything else, Tony is pushing him back, shoving him against the door and following him and tangling his hands in his hair, sealing their mouths together.

It’s fast, and rough, buttons flying and ricocheting off the walls, the keys and shoes and fabric carelessly discarded until Bucky can feel nothing else but the warmth of Tony’s skin against his and taste of him lingering against his lips, the heat of Tony’s mouth around him and the breaths that he exhales against the ceiling as he looks up at it and his fingers _grips_ the silky soft hair, mussing up the expensive haircut. And when Bucky thinks he’s about to lose his mind, when he yanks Tony off the floor and into his arms, when they fall between the sheets and he’s looking into Tony’s eyes as he sinks into the warmth of his body, when he watches the bruised lips part in a silent gasp, when he hears his name and Tony tells him that he’s _not Steve_ , when Tony is holding _on_ so tightly, like he’s the only thing that prevents Tony’s maddening world from tilting over the edge, when the syllables of his names falls out of Tony lips again, and again, _again_ , Bucky thinks he can understand why he keeps coming back.

And when the world around Bucky explodes in a sea of white, when he sags and buries his face against the heated salty skin of Tony’s neck, he can’t think of a better place he’d rather be than here.

He knows he’ll keep coming back.

He _wants_ to keep coming back.

Because Tony, as it is, is the sweetest whim he wants to keep indulging on.

\--

The sound of Tony’s phone vibrating is what makes Bucky suck in a sharp inhale, waking up to the dawn just starting to crack over the horizon. He feels Tony stir beside him, just as the phone goes quiet, the glow on the screen showing that Tony had answered Peppers late night call. Bucky props himself on his metal arm and sees Tony staring at the ceiling, eyes glazed over in a sea of black. It’s eerie, how it mirrors the rest of the room on the surface. Bucky doesn’t find it as scary as some others might and he leaves Tony to his conversation, sinking back into the pillow and sighing deeply.

Except he feels Tony tense, and something of a garbled gasp leave him. It is enough to have Bucky cautiously sitting up again and study Tony carefully, watching as his eyes had gone wide, like he’s staring at something that only he can see.

Bucky calls out Tony’s name once, carefully reaching out with a hand and giving Tony a light shake. And when Tony doesn’t respond, he calls his name louder, sharper.

The inky blankness crawls out to reveal blown out wide pupils, and Bucky is forced back as Tony sits up with urgency, reaching over for the bedside for the remove and switching the television on to the news channel, where there is a live coverage of firefighters trying to put out a fire and screams echoing in the background.

Stark Industries California office had been bombed, with mounting casualties and spreading collateral damage to its surrounding neighbors.

Screens from Tony’s phone populates and projects several other news channels all around them, casting a blue glow all around the room and filling the silence between them news reporter talking about the sudden attack and the continuous echo of the sirens, paramedics and firefighters trying to find survivors.

Bucky stares at Tony then, watches as he covers his mouth with two hands, watches the guilt and wretched _devastation_ sour his face, how it pulls it down and takes his shoulders with it, how the emotions and _guilt_ dances all over his face, how his breaths start to come up short because the news is saying something about scheduled overtime, about how there are no bodies being found of all the employers who had been on duty that night, how it’s Stark Industries end of fiscal year and how they do not expect any survivors. Bucky watches as Tony’s hand comes to his chest, how it fists against the skin, dragging angry red clawing lines over it.

The calls starts to pour in then from everywhere, some of them familiar, some of them people Bucky doesn’t recognize.

Tony makes no move to answer it, says nothing when he looks away from the television and meets Bucky’s gaze. Bucky watches _helplessly_ as his lips moves to form words, watches as Tony doesn’t even jerk when Rhodey knuckles starts knocking sharply at the door, doesn’t even respond when Rhodey calls for him to wake up and answer his phone.

Bucky can’t do a damn thing.

He can’t undo a disaster.

He can’t even find the words to comfort or even attempt to _lie_ and say it’s going to be okay, because it’s not.

Of course, _not_.

So he does the next best thing and shuts the television off, wraps his arms around Tony protectively and closes his eyes when he hears the door open and Rhodey storm into the room, card key in hand, whatever words that had been rolling off the Colonel’s tongue stilling at the sight of him in Tony’s bed. Bucky opens his eyes and meets Rhodey’s _piercing_ gaze, watches how Rhodey’s back straightens and how he swallows before he speaks.

“It’s not just SI.” He says, standing there in his pajama bottoms just as Carol waddles into the room, a hand on the side of her swollen belly.

“They’re calling us in. I’m gonna get front desk to get our check out sorted.” She says.

“It’s worse,” Rhodey says and pulls out his phone and blows up the brief he had received, from SHIELD and the Accords contacts all across the globe, short texts categorised as High Priority.

Bucky takes one look at projected briefs and feels ice cold dread pool at the bottom of his stomach. Because he has seen something like this before, he _recognizes_ this modus operandi, and the horror of it makes his arms tighten around Tony. He can almost hear their voices so, so  _clearly_.

(When history won’t change, we will change it ourselves. Accidents will continue to happen, solider. We are not done with you yet.)

The attacks happening as they sit there in he shrouded darkness of their hotel room is just the beginning. The purpose of it isn't to harm -- it never is. It is merely the catalyst.

The purpose, as always, is to induce fear and global panic, to allow the ugly side of the human race to come forth and rear it's ugly head under the pretence of fear and need for safety.

The purpose is to divide.

And if Stark Industries and all the other Accords' sponsors and supporters are being used as the catalyst, then it is only a matter of time before they come after Tony. 

Bucky pulls away from Tony and cups his face, shaking him out of the shock and forcing some focus into that glazed gaze, "Tony, we need to go. We really need to go, now. Okay?" 

"Cars are waiting upfront." Carol calls out from the hallway.

"Tones --"

"I'll meet you and Carol at the Triskellion; get everyone, buddy. I mean everyone." Tony sounds hollow, and so, so far away.

Rhodey doesn't need to be told twice and leaves the room immediately. Bucky takes the time then to draw Tony's attention to him pressing their foreheads together and trying hold Tony together, wishing he can do something, his flesh hand grabbing one of Tony's shaking; Tony is afraid.

Bucky can see that. And he should be.

They all should.

"I am right here," Bucky whispers. "You tell me what I need to do, you tell me what you want done. I am here. For you. You hear me?" When Tony doesn't respond immediately, Bucky gives him another shake, presses his cold metal hand against Tony's face; the flinch does the trick and Tony blinks at him, and once more before he sucks in a breath and exhales slowly. "You hear me?"

"I hear you..."

"Good. I'll drive." 

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heart. Just... my heart.
> 
> StOny won't quit on me, obviously. But eh, alternative route is alternative. Doesn't it just warm your heart though?
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING.


	6. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own BETA. I am sure that despite 100 reads, I have missed a lot of DUH-SO-OBVIOUS typos.

 

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”   
― [ **Victor Hugo**](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13661.Victor_Hugo), [ **Les Misérables**](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3208463)

Rhodey doesn’t remember seeing Tony so goddamn _livid_ like _this_ since the Mandarin had found it to be a great idea to use Pepper as leverage. The moment they had arrived at the Triskelion, gone had been the Tony who had, not just less than hour ago, been cowering in panic and dread, limp and numb in the protective arms of the Winter Soldier. There is not a hint of the panic from earlier, the stricken fear that robbed Tony’s pallor of color. What stands now, beyond the sealed sound proof glass of his office, is a man _enraged_ . The board of directors are refusing to utilize SHIELD resources to assist with the mounting casualties. One of the board members only had to point out the fact, while in the middle of a global _crisis_ , that SHIELD is not the Red Crescent or the UNHCR.

And that had been the very moment Tony had lost _all_ his shit.

Rhodey had caught the beginning of Tony’s blowout just as the door sealed shut. And now he’s watching the minutes tick by as Tony _shreds_ the board to pieces with argument after argument on why SHIELD really needs to hop on the bandwagon and coordinate with the Taskforce because the public _needs_ to believe they stand for something good, that they are _not Hydra._

The Taskforce had already begun dispatching heroes to all affected areas about ten minutes ago. Rhodey knows this because he had just gotten off the phone with Natasha, who had told him that they’re going to need the Winter Soldier back if SHIELD isn’t going to assist with the rescue efforts. Rhodey had taken one look at Tony’s red face and had told her to give him fifteen more minutes. They had a lot of ground to cover: one of Rand Enterprises’ main offices had been totalled too, just as bad as Stark Industries California; Time Square had been attacked and is currently on fire, collapsing several buildings; the Bartlett Regional Hospital in Alaska had caught on fire, spreading to its surrounding blocks and taking with it a few commercial buildings; they are still trying to currently put out the fire that had been set on the Mall of America in Minnesota; an entire faculty in the University of Ottawa had been leveled off the ground; a group of masked gunmen had gone and attacked St. Mary’s hospital in London; the Humboldt University in Berlin had also suffered the same fate as London’s attack; the Dubai Mall had been bombed, the damage spreading all the way to the Burj Khalifah, rendering it unstable; the Yanhuan Art Museum in Beijing had reported being completely totaled, losing millions worth of rare artifacts and claiming the lives of so far, one hundred and twenty eight visitors, including school children;  Petra in Jordan is completely _gone_ , taking with it hundreds of visiting tourists; Barcelona’s Sagrada Familia is currently on fire and there seems to be no hope in salvaging _anything;_  every single monk who had been currently present at the time of the massacre at Tawang Monastery in Arunachal Pradesh, India, is reported to be dead and some still in critical care awaiting news.

At first, it had seemed rather random, but the fire is spreading and there are far too many attacks happening at the same time for it be _just_ a coincidence. The attacks are throwing the United Nation’s and the Accords’ Taskforce for a loop, and it is _still_ happening. Rhodey had just gotten a text message less than half an hour ago that the Catholic Church goers of Taal Basilica had been gunned down, point blank, right in the middle of a Friday evening mass.

The United States military force had also been mobilized for security purposes, setting up barricades around the attack areas on American soil. Carol had left for the Pentagon to liaise with the Taskforce and the military as ground support and operations.

(You are so goddamn proud of her.)

Rhodey had about four more minutes before Natasha calls again and Tony is _far_ from done. So he stands there, right next to James Buchanan Barnes, watching the one and only Phil Coulson stare at Bucky with that eerily serene and disarming poker face and a ghost of a smile dancing around the edges of his lips. Rhodey doesn’t know how he does it.

“You’re taller than I imagined.” Phil says, breaking the silence. Rhodey watches as Bucky blinks and doesn’t move a muscle. “You also look a lot older with longer hair.  So where is the good Captain? Aren’t you two supposed to be inseparable?”

And that, much to Rhodey’s genuine curiosity, gets a reaction out of Bucky. It’s barely visible if one doesn’t know where to look. Rhodey is friends with someone like Tony who had turned the art of hiding one’s emotions into an art, he had practice over the years; he doesn’t miss how Bucky’s jaw tightens, how his gaze suddenly becomes sharper, like he’s turning his entire attention to the cause of his apparent displeasure. It’s almost lethal, that very minute shift.

“He’s at the compound.” Bucky answers, voice rough and flat, betraying none of the tension that is lacing through his entire frame.

“Oh, I meant no offense.” Phil says, and _smiles_ in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I grew up reading about you. You were always by his side. I’m a fan.”

The silence that falls briefly between them is ridiculously thick and awkward; Rhodey is almost glad he isn’t Bucky.

“Thanks?” Bucky mutters, and before Phil can say anything more, the sharp knocking of Tony’s fist against the glass makes them all look up. Tony points at Phil and motions for him to come into the office.

“Excuse me, Sergeant Barnes, Colonel Rhodes.”

There is a brief rush of the heated conversation escaping through the open door before the waiting room is bathed in complete silence once more, with nothing but the slow burn of the tension hanging between Rhodey and Bucky and the wait for SHIELD to get on the assist and rescue boat the Taskforce is currently busying themselves with.

“When did the both of you happen?” Rhodey asks, riding on the wings of the tension and awkwardness Phil had started, glancing up from his watch and clasping his arms behind his back.

“A few weeks ago.” Bucky answers, without hesitation, back straightening from its previously hunched position, no doubt a subconscious gesture to look meek and harmless and to not draw attention to himself.

But Bucky is standing at his full height now, like a soldier on alert; Rhodey takes it as a sign that Bucky refuses to be intimidated and will not be cowed by his line inquiry. It’s there in the tilt of his chin and how his gaze sharpens even more, making the blue of his eyes look like frigid and icy winters of the northern hemisphere. Rhodey thinks that he is probably talking to the Winter Soldier, because what is before him is not the man whose hands had been gentle on Tony, this is not the man who had wrapped his arms around his best friend with the incomprehensible need to protect and support. This man is entirely too _calm_ , too measured and too in control of himself. This is the _ghost_ people had talked about and it’s almost surreal how seamless the Winter Soldier had stepped forward, that the change is barely visible; it’s like he’s never left _at all_.

“And?” Rhodey prompts, baiting the man before him, leaving him to interpret the question as he will.

And like any _good_ soldier worth his salt, Bucky doesn’t take it and remains objective to the current situation they are _all_ in. “I don’t think this is the right time and place to discuss this.”

“It’s the perfect time. We’re still waiting for the Director to flip the rest of the board the finger and do the right thing anyway. I’m here waiting. You’re there waiting. Good time to talk.” Rhodey watches Bucky’s jaw harden for the briefest second before his expression irons out to a blank stare. “What are you doing, Barnes?”

“Fucking him.” Bucky answers and Rhodey isn’t sure what to _make_ of the very emotionless and disconnected answer, like it’s rehearsed. It almost sounds defensive in its crassness.

Rhodey isn’t sure if he likes the fact that Bucky isn’t shying away from his actions; truth is, Rhodey is still rather discombobulated by the discovery itself. He doesn’t how to piece this sort of puzzle together, how to digest it. He had known of Tony’s attraction to Steve, had expected, maybe, at some point, maybe _they_ would happen. The fact that Tony had gone ahead and engaged in the most intimate way possible with the _tool_ that had killed his parents leaves him very disoriented. It’s taking far too long to process and Bucky standing before him and now casting his gaze at the glass behind Rhodey’s figure to watch Tony argue isn’t helping.

“No shit, I didn’t notice.” Rhodey says, shrugging and once more, that icy stare is directed at him. “Listen, you’re going to have to _excuse me_ for not being able to handle this – handling a kid had been different. But this – this is _Tony_ **_now_ ** and he may not look it, and he’ll never admit, he’ll _die_ before admitting but he’s –“

“Fragile.” Bucky says, and that’s when his gaze drops to the ground. “I know.”

“So help me _understand,_ man. Because if this becomes a real thing, and he gets used to it, _when_ he realizes that _you_ are _important_ to him, and you get put into a situation where Siberia happens all over again, then do him a goddamn favor and put a bullet through his head when you do. That will be a _mercy._ ”

Bucky doesn’t _move_. “I would never hurt him.”

“Steve wouldn’t have, either. But we all know how that went.”

“ _I am_ _not Steve!”_

And Rhodey is taken aback by the viciousness of those words, how it’s sudden like a clap of thunder in its sharp and quiet delivery and for a moment, Rhodey thinks he sees anger, watches how the lividity of it sears the surface of Bucky’s calm exterior, how the tension coils like tensile steel ready to snap. Rhodey blinks at what he sees before him, the _anger_ that makes the blue in Bucky’s ice darker, like the stormy clouds rolling in.

Rhodey shrugs. “Words are words.”

“ _I_ _would never hurt him_ .” Bucky repeats, slow and emphasizing, fueled by _something_ that Rhodey can’t quite comprehend. Yet. “ **_Never_ **.”

The door opens and Tony’s _curse_ reverberates into the lobby; Rhodey isn’t cowed by the Winter Soldier. He doesn’t even flinch in the iciness of what sounds like a threat in his words, like Bucky is determined to raise hell before he’d even come close to _hurting_ Tony. Rhodey isn’t sure what to make of it, isn’t even sure _where_ it comes from, let alone _how_ it had even begun.

“We’ll see,” Rhodey says and it’s about as silently threatening, and just as cutting as Bucky’s own words.

“Suit up buddy, Times Square is your baby; take SHIELD squadron VII and VIII, they are on standby. Military is already on the ground, let me know if you need more support, I’ll send the Legion. You come with me. I got something I need you to try.” Tony says to Bucky reaching up and scratching at the skin under his collar, because he’s so wired with tension that the red flush goes all the way down his throat and past his collar bone.

“And what are you going to do?” Rhodey asks, unfolding his arms.

“Hunting.” Tony says, and moves down the corridor. “Oh and uh, don’t be surprised if you find a few of Charles’ people on-site. Spiderman is already there.”

“Got it. See you when I get back?”

“Sure thing, buddy. We’ll talk then!”

Rhodey watches as Tony disappears past the sliding doors and Bucky trailing after him in his shadow. Rhodey looks at his watch and walks the opposite way to head to the hangar. Phil is left behind to act as Tony’s right hand because Rhodey knows Tony. He knows he’ll want to cover as much as ground as he can.

He also knows what Extremis can do when Tony overuses it.

Rhodey wishes there is someone who can stay behind, to tell Tony that he should not be overdoing it, because he’s no good to _anyone_ if he can’t function right, if he’s too worn out, despite all efforts and want to be useful.

Bucky’s face comes to mind as Rhodey coordinates with the squadrons he’s been given, talking logistics, and strategy. At the back of his mind, Rhodey struggles to form an opinion, struggles to even pass judgment, even long after he steps into War Machine’s comforting embrace and he’s blasting off into the sky with two jets following him.

Bucky is _unexpected_.

One can’t really trust the unexpected.

\--

Bucky finds himself standing in the middle of Tony’s office. Up until the moment Tony presses his palm against his desk and one wall parts open to reveal what looks like a small workshop. There are glass boards and a fairly large work table, littered with half completed arrow tips, darts and what looks like a seemingly harmless pistol. Tony heads straight for the corner, where he punches in a key-sequence and a storage unit pops open from the wall. Tony pulls that open and takes two of the steel cases out.

Bucky’s eyes are still wandering over the glowing schematics on one side of the wall, and he sees a few things that he recognizes; he sees Red Wing, and Falcon’s wings, with a few notable additions. He recognizes the gauntlets that he had seen Natasha use a few times, and some of the familiar arrow tips he had seen Clint favor. There are other things too, ranging from telecommunication gear and armor, some he had seen on SHIELD agents when on the field, some probably still in its development stage. The sound of the sealed case opening makes Bucky turn his attention back to Tony, who is looking at the contents of the steel case; he turns that case so it faces Bucky, and nestled within it is something that resembles Bucky’s Winter Soldier tactical gear. Bucky had known that his old gear had been scrapped and ever since he had been deemed fit for active duty, he had been using the one and only gear he had gotten. He had access to numerous weaponry of his choosing; most of the Taskforce’s gear and equipment are manufactured by Stark Industries, anyway. He had not been informed of his new tactical gear coming through when he had asked for it weeks ago, as soon as he had been able to get around on a wheelchair.

He isn’t surprised if Tony is involved in the design and development of tactical gears; it’s one of Stark Industries successful business lines. When he reaches forward and pulls out the first piece, Bucky finds himself staring at what looks like some sort of bodysuit; a glance at the case tells him that _his_ tactical gear, the one he is familiar with, lies folded within. What surprises him is that his order for a new tactical gear hadn’t been handed to him through the usual channels, but is, instead, with Tony.

(You’re wondering if the rest of the team’s request for new gear is also with him now.)

It also isn’t lost on Bucky that he is standing in what looks like a private area, that Tony is letting him into _his_ world, giving him a glimpse of what hides beyond the walls of the SHIELD director’s office. It is humbling as much as it is daunting, and like reflex, the soldier in him flares a warning that he is too, _too_ close. Far too close for comfort.

(You don’t mind that.)

“It’s resistant to bullets, and fire, and to a point, it should adapt and resist cold temperatures too. I mean, you know, don’t get iced or stay on fire for too long, of course. The bullet thing, works. Just you know, don’t get hit by a rocket launcher. Put it on.”

Bucky looks up from the suit he is holding, mildly distracted by his own thoughts and what’s going on around him, and blinks, “Now?”

“Captain is assigned to the mess in Alaska. That’s where you’re going, by the way; did you get a chance to look at your phone? And yes, _now_.” Tony says and Bucky hesitates for a second too long, staring at the suit and contents of the case and then back up at Tony. He is about to shift and start to change when Tony’s next question stills his motions. “Are you being shy?”

“No.” Bucky is slightly taken aback.

“Good, because,” Tony huffs an amused laugh _and_ eyes Bucky up and down. “ _Really,_ now.”

“You flirting with me, _Stark_?” Bucky asks, purposely using his last name with a lilt in his tone, equally amused as he begins to strip down the tug the body suit on. The slight flush on Tony’s cheeks isn’t lost on Bucky.

“Is it working?” Tony asks, just as Bucky tugs the body suit all the way up to his waist.

Bucky doesn’t deem it with a verbal response and instead gives Tony a brief _look_ , a smirk tugging up around the corner of his lips; he is very aware that Tony is watching his every move. Bucky zips up the suit on his front and tugs at the wrist sleeves. It is surprisingly easy to slip into, and covers both arms snugly without hindering even a millimeter of movement. He had been a touch concerned when he had seen _both_ sleeves, but he supposes the extra layer of protection for his metal arm is a good thing. Slipping into his usual gear is a quicker affair, Bucky’s fingers familiar with each buckle and strap. When he slips the last blade into the holster on his boot and looks up at Tony, gone is the playfulness in his eyes, and what stands before Bucky instead, with the table between them, is Tony looking at the a spot on Bucky’s chest, knuckles white against the edges of the table.

Bucky can see the worry lines between his brows, the troubled and apprehensive look that lines Tony’s jaw with tension. Tony is _worried_ , and Bucky thinks he should be. Bucky thinks that Tony’s mind must be racing with a hundred things right then and there that when he looks up at Bucky and their gazes lock, Bucky can see how blown wide Tony’s pupils are. He isn’t just worried, he is _afraid_.

“I’m not going to tell you that it’s going to be okay. It won’t be. Not immediately." Bucky says and watches how Tony releases a shaky and measured exhale. “You’ve got a united front going on for you. That’s an advantage.”

(An empire toppled by its enemies can rise again. But one that crumbles from within, that’s dead. Forever.)

Tony’s hands releases the edge of the table, palms carefully pressing flat against surface. “This thing that’s happening right now, the mutants are going to be aggressively blamed for it. When you have the _entire world_ demanding that mutants be identified, when policies like pre-birth screenings gets introduced, we’re talking about _people_ being weeded out because they’re _born different,_ because it’s _evolution_. These people, these _mutants,_ god I hate that word, they’re not like you and me. I am what I am because of circumstances. You, Steve, Strange, Bruce, _Wanda_ \-- all of us were _made_ into what we are. Outside factors. Evolution may have _assisted_ in the sense that we’d _survive_ these outside factors and adapt to it, around it, but we weren’t _born_ like this. But these people…” Bucky watches as Tony brings a hand to cover his mouth and swallows past whatever dryness he must feel in his throat before he presses his hands back on the table. “If the mutant-registration act comes through, and believe me, there are _countries_ already backing it up, there is a strong demand for it to move forward, and if it _does_ , the Accords? That’s _nothing_ compared to what’s coming. If you think the street wars happening now amongst differences of beliefs amongst heroes and vigilantes is disastrous, this is going to be worse. People would be hunted down like _dogs_.” Bucky holds Tony gaze for a long moment and watches as Tony hesitates, “I’m telling you this because the storm that’s coming, if the outcome is in favor of this act, the Accords will _shift._  You need to be prepared for that. You all should be. This has been going on for a _long_ time and maybe it’s meant to hit us, maybe there is no stopping it… but…”

“And SHIELD?”

Tony sucks in a breath and looks down at the table, “It’s a lot of red tape there. We’re _cooperating_ with the United Nations but we do not answer to them. We answer to the American government." Tony huffs a humorless laugh. “Governments change and can be infiltrated. You know that. You’ve toppled a few over the course of your Hydra career. If shit hits the fan, if the UN votes against it, and the American government is for it, and they _are_ leaning towards it, we _will_ be on opposing sides.”

Bucky watches how the color drains from Tony’s face; he hears what he’s saying, understands what he’s saying.

(You don’t want to be on opposing sides.)

“How _sure_ are you of SHIELD?” Bucky throws the question out there, and like he expects, he sees Tony tense and not answer. “You can’t trust _everyone;_ not even when you think that you’ve got all your ducks in line. Not when there’s a bigger hand dealing cards that you can’t see.”

“And that includes you?” Tony is looking at the empty case on the table, not meeting Bucky’s eyes.

And here’s what gives Bucky reason to pause and address the little sharp pain, somewhere behind his sternum. It’s like a piece of glass, left there to settle and eventually push against the walls of his heart and rupture it, until tissue and muscle gives way and the damage just continues to grow until it’s too  late to stop it. Bucky knows he’s dangerous, that the only thing keeping him from going off like a live wire is a little device implanted in his brain. A device is still a device and Bucky knows that Hydra is capable of suppressing the Winter Soldier. Devices can be removed. Bucky will always have a fighting chance so long as he isn’t on his own against them. He knows this and he knows that he can count on Steve to have his back at all times.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he is _still_ dangerous.

Dangerous men will always endanger those around them; Bucky cannot imagine what he’d even _feel_ if Tony _ever_ becomes collateral damage because of _him_.

(Tony doesn’t deserve that.)

“Yes.” Bucky says, with something heavy weighing down on his tone. He sees how Tony is looking at him now and something in that look makes it feel like Bucky’s ribcage is being ripped open slowly, bones snapping under the flesh.

Something in that look _gets_ to Bucky.

And he can’t ignore it.

It’s too late to take the words back.

(Truth always did hurt like a goddamn bitch.)

“Well, that’s good to know.” Tony says and pushes away from the table and tapping the extra case on the table. “Make sure Cap gets that.”

And Bucky can see how the walls go up with those dismissive words. Tony is moving towards the office, putting distance between them that feels as wide as the ivory chasm Bucky remember falling into. He does nothing to stop the distance from growing. When he should. He really should.

(What the hell are you doing!)

He doesn’t say anything more when he should be saying that _I want to be the guy that you trust, the guy you can count on no matter what, because I like being around you, I am better around you. But I can’t be that guy knowing that the only thing, that the only buffer between myself and Hydra is a small device that can be removed. Therapy isn’t working that fast and you can’t undo seventy years of damage in less than ten, if at all. I can’t be the guy you can completely count on, not when I can’t trust myself. Trying isn’t good enough for you, you need_ **_more_ ** _than that. Trying is half-assed._

But Bucky is silent as he steps back into the office and looks at his phone; Steve is already on site with the rest of the new recruits. “Steve’s here.”

Tony is looking out the stretch of the glass window. He doesn’t turn to look at James. “Let me know how the suit works.”

“I will,” Bucky answers and turns to leave the office. He makes it about half way down the hallway to the elevators when he feels the vicious _curse_ roll of his tongue, leaving a bitter after taste in his mouth. He stands there in the middle of the hallway, visibly hesitating because he should go, he needs to. Giving Tony false promises about how he’ll always stay, how he’s always on his side when Bucky does not have any _solid_ guarantees, when he’s got nearly a century worth of experience and knowledge of how Hydra will always do _anything_ and _everything_ to get what it wants, is cruel – it’s better to walk away.

It’s better to have distance.

(You’ve had your fun; now move on.)

Bucky thinks back on Siberia, how Tony had come out of his free will and as a friend, how despite all risks for himself, he had gone anyway. He had taken the gamble when he didn’t have to. Sooner or later, if he and Steve had been successful in nullifying the threat, the truth would have come out anyway. Tony had _tried_ . And even after he had been beaten down and left behind, he didn’t stop _trying_ , even when all odds had been stacked against him.

The pull Bucky feels in his chest makes him _almost_ turn around.

He _almost_ gives into the whim.

But the soldier in him this time, wins.

And when Bucky straps himself into the quinjet, when he stares at his reflection on the surface of his metal arm, he looks exactly like how he feels: regretful.

\--

The jostle of the jeep startles Steve awake from the gruesome images that continues to plague his mind days after the search and rescue mission in Atlanta. He still remembers what it had felt like to be digging through the concrete and dust, remembers finding bodies of women and children, remembers the weight of what had looked like a newborn, half its face gone, and as gray as the concrete dust in his arms, its life reduced to nothing but a mere casualty. He remembers hours stretching on to days going by and him not wanting to stop to _help_.

It is all he had done within the first seventy two hours, focusing on trying to find any survivors in what now looks like a massive crater hole in the middle of Atlanta. The news had said that the hospital had caught on fire; upon arrival on the site, however, it is clear that the fire had been a cover up. A fire wouldn’t leave a crater behind. Not this big, anyway.

Steve had not known what to think and for a moment, the numbing feeling of picking up bodies and whatever body parts he can find and holding the younger and newer members together in the effort taking priority; Wiccan had adapted pretty well, all things considered. Speed however, had taken a while to get used to the carnage that lay under the rubble. If it had been up to Steve, sheltering Billy and Thomas would have been his preference. But wars are never pretty, and sooner or later, it would always catch up on the young.

That had been the first seventy two hours.

Right after that, _something_ in the scale had tipped and SHIELD agents, United Nations representatives and Taskforce members had started to drop like dead flies and with them several casualties – plane crashes, car accidents, hit and runs, muggings – it had been too much of a coincidence.

Steve finds himself suddenly caught in the middle of a global mess with everyone blaming politically strained relationships and pointing fingers.

The moment the local authorities in Atlanta had been able to handle the mess on their own, Steve and his team had been shipped off to assist with the team in Canada, where the largest mosque in Alberta had been attacked and an all-out fight in the streets had broken out. Steve had a sprained wrist and several bruised and possibly cracked ribs to testify to the fight he and his team had been dragged into. The fight had lasted for hours, totalling a good chunk of the community of Castleridge. Wiccan Speed had been completely depleted but had managed to assist in evacuating civilians, working with Captain Canuck’s team in attempting to minimize collateral damage and casualties.

But there is so much one can do.

None of them had been prepared for this.

Not in this kind of scale, at least.

And just when Steve had thought that the Taskforce and SHIELD and other organizations like it had managed to get on top of their scrambling game, the chaos that had followed after the first round of attacks and fights had hit, and it had hit hard. Attacks against mutants and superheroes alike had reached a new level of unbridled fear, all within less than a span of ten days. Just prior to their departure from a safe house in Calgary, Steve remembers hearing one of the super-powered volunteer saying that she had been harassed by victims themselves, when she had attempted to assist the onsite medical team, while another one had mentioned being viciously attacked and shoved away and being told to ‘burn in hell’ when he had simply been handing out water and blankets.

Steve rubs the exhaustion out of his face, and looks up to find that Speed is curled against his side, leaning against the back of the driver’s seat headrest while Wiccan had his own head hanging over his chest, both of them passed out from exhaustion. A glance at his right tells him Bucky is wide awake and watching the street pass them by.

“Was I out for long?” Steve asks, keeping his voice down.

“No.” Bucky says, and turns to look at Steve then. Steve can see the disappointment in his eyes. “There’s been a mass shooting at Lincoln Memorial. We’re being called back to DC.”

“Shit.” Steve _swears_ and he knows, deep down, that an attack within the capital city is going to be the stick that will break the camel’s back. “How many dead?”

“They’ve counted two hundred eighty tourists.” Bucky mumbles, staring at his hands.

Steve takes his phone out and only needs to skim through the briefs and short updates and feels the migraine start to _flare_ somewhere at the back of his skull. This, Steve knows, is when the voice of intelligence is going to be drowned out by the roar of fear.

They reach the hangar within the next half an hour and are on the quinjet piloted by no other than Clint himself, with the help of the leg braces he mentions Tony had sent over. Because they’re short on pilots who are fully trained to operate the quinjet, because they had lost so much and the body count is still counting, Clint had agreed and had reached out to Tony directly. Last Steve had heard, Sam had been offering ground support via radio to their newer recruits.

“Wheels up in ten, boys.” Clint calls out from the pilot’s seat, and turning his attention back to the radio as he communicates with the tower. “We gotta make a stop at Toronto and pick up a few more of ours on the way.”

Wiccan and Speed had climbed into the upper deck, finding a spot to continue to pass out on, while Steve had found a corner to catch up on the new information he hadn’t had the time to absorb.

By the time they had actually left Toronto and had been bound for DC, protests for pro and against mutant registration act had started erupting all across North America; analysts predict that if no resolution is put into place, the protests risks spreading down to the south where similar attacks had also taken place in the course of the week. It’s already happening in small pockets all across the Middle East and North Africa, some of it flaring in large numbers in South East Asia, where, just less than four hours ago, the Masjid Negara in Kuala Lumpur had suffered the same fate as Lincoln Memorial.

Steve doesn’t know _what_ to think.

He doesn’t even know where to start analyzing.

All he can think of are the rows of dead bodies covered in flimsy plastic because there had been a shortage of body bags.

Steve joins Clint and Bucky in the front, both sitting in silence and looking ahead at the cloudy skies they are passing through.

“You doing all right?” Steve asks Clint, eyes flicking down the leg braces he had on.

“Eh, beats being on a wheelchair.” Clint says, shifting his left leg a bit. “You guys heard about Carol?” Steve turns to _look_ at Clint, sudden, and feels ice pool in his stomach. “There was an attempt at the Pentagon. She got hit.” Steve is unable to stop the _curse_ from rolling off his tongue.

When Clint doesn’t add more to it, Steve knows that it’s worse.

The ride back remains silent and Steve finds himself thinking of Rhodey and his family, thinking of Carol and Tony, and all the countless faces that had lost someone close, and feel the loss claw at the most vulnerable parts of them, the parts that makes it so easy to seed hate and anger. It’s always the case in the midst of chaos. And here is where intelligence will be biased by the hate and extinguished by the anger, and worst of all, this is where all _reason_ goes out the window, where everything gets silenced by ignorance.

Ignorance in this case, is not knowing who is the enemy.

The moment they had arrived in DC, Steve leads his team to get debriefed. He finds out then  from no other than Natasha herself, that the Taskforce and SHIELD are sharing information and that they have a lead on an operational hub in Montenegro, Kotor; War Machine, Hulk and Vision will be joining the team, alongside the current assembly; they are to leave as soon was Vision and War Machine arrives. Bruce apparently, had arrived an hour ago and is awaiting further instructions.

Steve takes that moment to cast a weary glance at his team. He is aware that his team can withstand the stress and demand, but it’s been a week and while he knows they’ll _manage_ , he also knows that the fatigue will factor into their current performance. He dismisses them, tells them to go ahead and do what they need to do and to meet in the hangar. It is when Steve steps out of the briefing room, leaving Clint with Natasha that he sees Sam waiting, propped up on two crutches.

“I’ll be on the ground, providing intel; Red Wing is coming along. Scott left two days ago to rendezvous with Wasp; they’re following another lead.”

“How’s he managing?” Steve asks; a week ago, Scott had managed to get around with only one crutch.

“Tony sent him a knee-brace.” Sam tips his chin at Clint. “Sent us all our new gear, too. But I’m not cleared for the field yet.”

“It’s all right, Sam. To be honest…” Steve feels the pinch between his shoulder blades, feels the weight of the burden come down on him. “I’m not so sure any of the team is in tip-top shape right now.”

Sam doesn’t respond and instead casts a glance over Steve’s shoulder. “How you holding up there, Champ?”

Bucky gives a bit of a grunt in response. “No spare leg brace for you?”

“Nah, man. You already got a pilot with you. Besides, it’s going to be a full house.” Sam shrugs.

“Suit yourself.” Bucky murmurs and walks past them. “I’ll see you at the hangar.”

Steve finds himself humming in response and watching his friend’s retreating back. Bucky had not said a _word_ since joining the team a week ago, not even after he had handed Steve his new gear. Steve had put two and two together and had buried the feeling of a thousand needles pricking him from within. And then the feeling had been momentarily muted, pushed to the very back of his mind as the days had dragged on and Steve had stopped counting how many dead bodies he had held in his hands.

But now there’s a pause.

Now, Steve is reminded of those needles once more, how they pinch and press into the tender flesh under his ribcage, digging into _everything_ , and making him suck in a shaky breath.

“Come on, Steve.” Sam says, and Steve watches as something akin to understanding reflect in those dark eyes. “You got an hour. Keep me company over a meal. When was the last time you ate?”

“Can’t remember.” Steve murmurs and rubs a slightly ashy fingertips over his temple, smearing a bit of the grime there. “Let me wash up. I’ll see you at the mess hall?”

“Sure thing. Don’t take too long.”

Steve is already jogging down the hallway and stepping outside, crossing the distance between the main building and the accommodation units. It takes him about fifteen minutes to scrub down a week’s worth of work off him. Within twenty, he’s donning his spare tactical gear, shield on his back and punching the elevator button to the mess hall. Sam is already sitting at one of the tables, with two tumblers of protein shakes accompanying the spread of things that Steve, honestly, doesn’t recall tasting as he wolfs them down. Ten minutes into the meal and tumblers empty, Steve sits there and stares at the crumbs on his plate and feels the weight of Sam’s gaze on him.

“I’m good, Sam.”

“Everyone’s good after a warm meal, Steve.” Sam says, and shifts to lean back on his chair. “I saw Carol couple of days ago.” Steve looks up quite sharply at that. “It’s not so good. It’s risky – but she’s being monitored on the clock and last I was told, Rhodey is far from home and can’t get out of anything to be there. I stayed around long enough until a relative showed up.”

Steve feels that pinch again, eyebrows knitting as he looks back down at his plate; he feels his eyes close as the pulsing migraine starts to slowly form at the back of his skull. “Jesus…”

“I dunno what the hell is going on, but it’s pissing a lot of people off. Stark’s school was attacked; did you hear about that? By protestors. The students were ordered to _not_ engage and were evacuated.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head, and then continues to shake his head. “No, I didn’t know.”

“Listen,” Sam leans forward, “I’m tracking a few leads. I’ve got ears on the field; the moment I find _something_ …”

Steve shakes his head again and looks up at Sam again; he isn’t sure what to say, isn’t even sure how to put into words the feeling that feels like burning bile, churning and eating away at his insides. Steve cannot stop the uncomfortable shift in his seat, cannot even figure out _what_ to do with himself, because like the rest of the world, he’s in the dark with the entire situation.

(And that’s not just it.)

“Thank you, Sam.” Steve murmurs and looks away after a moment, leaning against his chair with sigh that belies his exhaustion, his confusion, his inability to ground himself. “I appreciate it.”

The silence that passes between them is heavy and Steve can almost hear the seconds tick by before Sam breaks it with his words. Steve thinks he should just head to the hangar, prepare for the flight to Europe, go over reports, update himself, _distract_ himself – _anything_ that serves a bigger purpose than _himself_ , really.

“Steve, listen,” Sam voice is soft, quiet, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear. “I know something’s been bothering you for a long while. And maybe when this is all over…”

Steve nodes mutely and gives a bit of a half-hearted smile before he takes that as his queue to leave. He finds himself a corner in the quinjet, reading the mission briefings, offering a nod to the team members who slowly start to trickle in. Somewhere on the upper deck, he can already hear the latest two additions argue over their snacks. Bruce comes in with Natasha and Clint, and Bucky is the last to arrive. The hum of the engine firing up fills the space and Steve is forced to look up from the report he is reading to move into one of the seats.

And it is in that moment that he hears the familiar voice of Spiderman, and the blue and red uniform making an appearance by the entrance, Peter waving his hand and greeting everyone, calling out wassup’s and hey-everyones to those around him, a backpack hanging over one shoulder.

“Spiderman?” Steve asks, taking the offered handshake.

“Hey, Captain. Long time no see. Yeah, uh, I’m filling in for Vision? Mr. Stark said that he was reassigned last minute.”

“Tony’s with you?” Steve cannot keep the surprise from his tone.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, I came in with him. He was right behind me and – oh there he is.” Peter turns around and jerks his thumb at the familiar figure of Tony dressed in what looks like a black body suit. Steve doesn’t remember seeing anything like it before. “Hey, is it okay if I take the upper bunks?”

“Knock yourself out.” Steve says, a little absently as he meets Tony’s gaze from across the hangar, where he is conversing with Everett and a few other Taskforce representatives. “Good to have you with us, Spiderman.”

“Thanks, Cap!” Peter disappears to the upper deck, already engaging with Wiccan and Speed as he climbs up.

Steve doesn’t get much time to ponder on why Tony is taking Rhodey’s place because the moment Tony steps into the jet, he announces it to everyone himself. “Rhodey really needs to be with Carol. I’m taking his place. That okay with you, Cap?”

Steve had expected a lot of things, but the feeling of his chest expanding with an inhale of excitement, because this is what he had been waiting for all this time, a chance to fight by Tony’s side, this moment right here with Tony looking up at him, trusting him to lead the team had not been it by a long shot – Tony is looking up at him and that brown gaze focusing on just him, asking his approval, when Tony never, _ever_ , needs to seek it.

“It would be an honor.” Steve says, the words coming out soft and eliciting just the barest hints of a smile from the corners of lips. Steve takes the offered handshake that feels like an olive branch, the warmth from Tony’s palm radiating onto his own. Steve doesn’t bother to hold back when he presses his other hand over Tony’s palm. “It’s good to have you back, Tony.”

“Thank you, Cap.” Tony says, and the smile becomes a little more visible, softening his features.

Steve feels something like hope flare in his chest, amidst the chaos of the past week; it’s like finally seeing a sliver of that silver lining.

Except the moment shatters in an instant the moment he releases Tony’s hand and Tony turns, only to stand rigid in his steps when his gaze locks with Bucky. This is where Steve _really_ looks at Bucky, sees the flare of _something_ in his eyes that had been blank and distant the entire time they had been in Atlanta and Calgary, throughout the drives and flights. Steve sees the brief of flash of warmth there, small and muted before it is completely suppressed when Tony walks past them all to the cockpit with nothing more than a nod as a greeting towards Bucky, taking a seat next to Clint and engaging in conversation.

This is where, for the first time since that night in the hallway, when Steve had wordlessly handed Bucky his motorcycle key that they _look_ at each other. Bucky is the first to look away, to cast his gaze downwards like he’s _ashamed_ , like he’s made a mistake, like he can’t face Steve.

And that,for some reason, makes something red and hot and visceral flare somewhere in the pit of Steve’s stomach.

It is surprising.

This time, Steve doesn’t just swallow and push it away.

This time, he allows it reign free over his face, sear into his muscle and bones, as he turns around and finds a corner and continue to read the briefs he had been pouring over earlier. He doesn’t engage, he doesn’t speak, he doesn’t make a sound throughout the course of the flight and the rest of the team steers clear of him.

And if he had felt Bucky’s gaze on him, he pretends not to.

\--

The facility is buried deep into the mountains, shrouded in ice and seemingly abandoned. Tony had expected many things, but an abandoned facility had not been it. There are tell-tale signs of the place being occupied once, but the thick layer of undisturbed dust tells them that no one had been around to use _any_ of the equipment.

“This looks familiar.” Natasha says dryly, casting a glance at Steve.

“This wasn’t part of the info you had dumped for public knowledge years ago.” Steve answers.

“That’s because it’s new.” Peter murmurs. “Check it out. Newer DELL monitors – I think these were released into the market late last year.”

“He’s right.” Tony’s hud pulls back. “No one’s home. No heat signatures.”

“We should split up. Spiderman, take Wiccan and Speed with you, cover the rest of the floor, see what you can find. Stay on the comms. Widow and Ironman, see what you can pull out of their systems. Buck, we’ll take the lower grounds. These places _always_ have sub-levels. Hawkeye and Hulk, standby.”

“Copy that~” Clint confirms.

The rest of the team disperses as Natasha and Tony fires up two of the computers; Tony only gets to spare both super soldier’s a short glance, watching them round a corner, before he connects into the one of the mainframes of the facility’s network.

The sea of white that engulfs him gradually opens up to pockets of lingering data that had been forcibly wiped off. There isn’t much to work with, what with most of the information either redundant or one that would require time to piece together what had been previously destroyed. The fact that there are pockets of it left makes Tony think that either the people who had used the facility had been amateurs, or they had been in such a great hurry that they hadn’t done a very thorough job.

The third option is that whoever they are had known someone would come along and that the entire operation is nothing but a wild goose chase.

“Guys, there’s nothing here. Not even –“ Peter’s voice suddenly cuts off and there is _silence_.

Tony backs up all the information he can find and blinks a few times when he comes out of Extremis’ embrace. And it feels like he’s been dropped from mid-air, because the nausea that _hits_ Tony then leaves him grabbing the edge of the table, bracing himself as he scrunches his eyes and his mind catches up with the present along with his current physical state. He feels gloved hands on his shoulder and he looks up to see Natasha’s green gaze lingering on him, concern and something else that robs her face of color directed at him.

“What’s there Spiderman?” Steve’s voice comes through the communicator.

“My senses… guys, I don’t think, we’re really alone.”

Tony barely gets a second to react when Peter’s voice cuts through the communicators once more, sharp and almost panicked, _shouting_ for them to get out and _get out now._

Heat suddenly engulfs the facility as Tony grabs Natasha against him and covers her, rock and ice and debris starting to rain down as fire engulfs the hallway. Chaos erupts through the communicators and Tony is yelling at Peter to get Billy and Thomas _the fuck out of there_ , with Clint barking out coordinates. Tony doesn't get too far even as he propels forward, Natasha secure in his arms; but the falling rocks are far too fast and Tony feels something heavy, knock him off his escape path. The thruster on his right foot fizzles for a moment and that sends him and Natasha toppling forward and sideways. Tony barely gets more than a heartbeat to realize that the entire mountain is surrounding him, his paths block. The need to survive and protect Natasha _flares_ within the second heartbeat;  Natasha is dropped like a sack of potato under him, as Tony towers over her on all fours. They are trapped in a small wedge between fallen rock and cables, and with the weight from above still coming down, Tony knows that it won’t be long before they get pancaked.

So he braces himself against the ground,  creating a small safe space around her; Tony and the armor are the only things keeping Natasha alive and not crushed under the weight of the stil collapsing debris; a minute passes and that’s when the shift makes Tony cry out, when he starts to feel the heaviness resting on his back. Tony can hear the metal give way, watches as parts of the armour go offline as it is slowly crushed with each passing second.

“Give me _something,_  Friday.” Tony groans, as he feels himself sink just another inch closer to the ground, the arc reactor now pressing firmly against Natasha’s chest.

“Negative, boss. You are surrounded by fallen debris. Any and all attempt to engage in firearms may result in a larger collapse –“

“Damnit.” Tony curses, and _grunts_ when he feels the armor tremble under the crushing weight that he can barely keep up. There is blood sliding down Natasha’s temple, half of her face covered by the ash, dust and soot. She stirs for a moment, eyebrows knitting.

“Tony, Natasha, hold on! We’re coming to get you!” Clint says. “We’re clearing a path –“

One half of the armor goes offline as Tony’s elbow connect with the floor and he sinks lower, with a _curse_ . Natasha is _pinned_ to the ground now.

“Natasha.” Tony grunts, sweat beading on his temples as he feels his left arm  and left leg tremble from trying to keep the weight off her. It’s starting to really _hurt,_ the sharp metal dents digging into back and legs. “Natasha – hey! Hey, listen I need –“

Tony scrunches his eyes, and grits his teeth, focusing on trying to hold his position because a few inches more and Natasha wouldn’t survive.

“H-How far –“ Natasha croaks out raspily into the communicator. “How _far,_ Clint!”

“Hold on!” Billy’s voice cuts through, sounding panicked, breathless and high pitched just around the edges.

The roar of the Hulk’s voice rattles the insides of Tony’s head and he feels his right knee slip just the tiniest bit, gravel rolling under the skid of his armored foot, making him drop forward a little more and Natasha give out a pained gasp. The hud comes up then and Tony gives her a shaky smile because he’s crushing her and she’s having a hard time breathing with all that weight on her and there is _nothing_ she can do.

There's nothing Tony can _do._

“We’re gonna be okay.” Natasha _chokes_ , and Tony hears the lie in her voice, hears the _fear_ there, beyond the veil of the breathlessness. “Tony, we’re going to be okay, we’re going to get out of this, we’re going to find those _motherfuckers_ —“

Natasha’s _cry_ sounds off just as the scream rips out of Tony and his right arm gives into the crushing weight. It happens in a heartbeat because just when Tony feels the crushing weight consume him and pressing down against his skull, it disappears and he’s suddenly being _yanked_ back by his ankle and is being thrown several feet into the cold and open air. Tony only gets a moment to register the crushing grip of the Hulk’s hand on his ankle before he hits something with a _crack_ like a rag doll and then he’s sinking.

It is the feeling of cold water hitting his face that shocks Tony back to reality, the blackness around the corners of his vision suddenly clearing as he inhales involuntarily and feels the water fill his lungs and stomach. Tony brings a hand up to his throat, just as the thought of _close it_ flares in his mind. The hud slams shut and whatever that’s online kicks into emergency and safety mode, draining the inside of the suit.

It doesn’t drain fast enough.

The rebooting system flares in and out of focus, Friday’s voice ringing somewhere in his ears as she tells him that the suit is partially online as Tony _gasps_ with breath the moment space is created between his nose and the hud, choking within the confines of his suit as he barely gets a glimpse of the dark frozen lake around him, and then he’s propelling shakily through the air and onto land, where he collapses on his knees and the suit retracts, because he wants out, _getoffme getoffme getoffme!_ Tony shivers in the cold, and vomits out the icy water he had swallowed, retching against the frozen ground and _shaking_.

It is then that he gets to look at one side of the mountain, flushed around the cheeks as the rest of him goes ashy, nails slowly turning blue as he shakily tries to stand there and stare at the landslide coming down from where the facility had once been.

It had been a wild goose chase after all.

Tony heaves one more time before he pulls out the damaged ear piece, crushing it and tossing it aside. He carefully finds his footing on the thick sheet of ice, stretching over the large lake, for a moment just standing there at a loss, breathing in the air that feels like needles and _goddamnit Bruce, why do you have to throw me like you’re aiming for a fucking homerun?_

Tony finds himself kneeling on the ground unable to keep standing because he’s _afraid_ , he’s so afraid that his knees are shaking;  he presses his hands against his knees, a pitiful attempt to get rid of the numbness there, closes his eyes and starts reaching out with Extremis, connecting to a Stark satellite and fishing for a network. Finding the quinjet is never easy, it’s not built to be found easy, after all. It takes a while but he eventually finds it and bypasses the stealth protocols in seconds before he _croaks_ , “Natasha...“

“I’m here. I’m fine – “

“Where are you, Tony!” Steve’s voice cuts through, and god he sounds _scared_.

(Captain America isn’t supposed to be scared.)

Tony feels the slamming _relief_ because she could have died there, she could have been crushed and if they had been on their own, they’d be done for and any and all attempts to blast everyone outwards would have been a gamble.

The barrage of questions pouring through is tuned out as Tony shuts it all down and focuses on one channel. He tells Clint to standby and disconnects, dropping into the current reality and finding himself face first against the ice. Tony doesn’t know how long it takes it for him to find the strength to push himself off the ice, smearing it with red that is trickling down down his nose and ears. But he manages.

He always manages.

What remains of the suit encases him, scratched and dented with minimal output on his left side. But it is enough and Tony takes off for the sky. Clint had been on standby exactly where Tony had found him earlier. Tony lands and collapses into the warmer confines of the quinjet, the suit peeling off him and disappearing as he sinks to his knees, panting and struggling for breath that feels like shards of glass are sliding through his nasal passage and throat.

He feels arms around him along with a blanket and barely gets a moment to register what’s going on before he finds himself staring into the familiar gaze of the Winter Soldier. He feels the warmth of Bucky’s hands against his cheek and god, it’s such a comfort, like the heat radiating off a fireplace on a cold winter evening; it’s something Tony tries to focus on as his world fades in and out of focus, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against Bucky’s, leeching off his warmth. He drowns himself in that sea of blurry familiar blue, Bucky’s first name rolling off his lips like it's a relief because in the end, despite all warnings, despite his words, no matter how hard Tony tries resist, he is always, _always_ hopelessly drawn to him.

“James…” Tony sighs and closes his eyes just as he feels Bucky still and stiffly pull back.

“I’m not…”

Tony peels his eyes open after a moment, blinks long and hard try to focus on his surroundings, trying to hold himself together as the chills wracks through his body.

And that’s when he sees the specks of green in the sea of blue, how it’s different and familiar and yet not. Tony focuses on one point and _concentrates,_ forces himself to because this is a constant now, several realities collapsing into one. Tony counts from one to ten very slowly, keeps looking into the sea of blue, waiting for the green to _disappear._

Except it _doesn’t_.

And when world around him stills and the blackness and warped hazed from the corner of his vision somewhat clears, Tony finds himself staring at the face of America’s golden boy and that’s when Tony _jerks_ back like he’s been burned. That’s when he stumbles back, palms on the ground and starts stammering apologies and looking around him until he finds Bucky standing like a sentinel on one side, fists balled and unmoving, eyes wide and looking _right_ at him.

Bruce's gaze is next and Tony _knows_ – oh how he _knows_ – that the moment he looks at Bruce, that’s when his gig is up.

Because he should not have been using Extremis the _way_ he _had_ been using the past ten days. The moment Bucky had left his office in DC, Tony had gotten to work, going through intelligence SHIELD had gathered, liaising with all units that had been dispatched, following up on investigations leads, dead ends, even goddamn _rumors –_ Tony had combed through the _world_ on a witch hunt, all while trying to fight insurance companies for the rights of his deceased staff, giving statements, and answering to the Pentagon and SHIELD’s board. Tony thinks he deserves an award for the way he had multi-tasked the past ten days, but therein lies the crux of the problem.

Extremis is one of his greatest weapons.

It is also his bringer of destruction.

Tony had gone far and beyond his limit of continuous use of Extremis, because forty eight hours later, despite accomplishing _a lot_ in that short amount of time, Tony remembers sliding off his office chair with no control over his body, like he had been paralyzed. He remembers falling to the floor of his office and remembers passing out in a pool of his own blood, a familiar result from the pressure building up in his head, where it had trickled from his nose, eyes and ears and this time, it had bubbled out of his throat too.

Tony remembers passing out.

And remembers jerking off the floor from a nightmare where he no longer had a body, where instead, he had been a dilapidated marionette of metal, black sludge and blood, where pieces of his flesh had hanged from the broken and creaking skeletal frame, where upon looking at his hands and catching his reflection in the ghoulish nightmare, Tony had come to realize that he is losing parts of himself and becoming more machine than man, becoming more of a program than a human being.

Tony remembers how he had screamed himself raw, how his office had blacked out and the soundproofing had kicked in, how the networks had scrambled from his panic, resulting in a full five minute outage that had sent the entire Triskellion leeching off its backup generators and communications being rebooted.

The nightmare had never left him since then.

Eight days ago, when Tony had looked at himself in the mirror, he sees the glow of red eyes instead of his own brown ones. Seven days ago, he feels the heavy weight of his steps, like he’s trudging around with Ironman’s armor on. Six days ago, he stops seeing the flesh of his hands and instead, he sees metal fingers, spreading from the tips of his nails down his wrists, tearing through his flesh in such a macabre way that Tony remembers retching into his office bin, sick and disgusted and so, _so_ terrified. The weight of his guilt and the culminations of all his bad decisions, all his miscalculations had manifested into forms that drapes over his shoulders. When Tony looks in the mirror, he sees Howard’s crushed face on his left and Maria’s pale pallor on his right. There are days when he sees Jarvis right behind him, and Yinsen’s final expression when he had exhaled his last breath. He sees Pietro and Charlie Spencer, the Afghan elderlies, the women and children, the people of Sokovia who had been reduced to collateral damage, the casualties of New York and Germany – Tony can _hear_ the screams and each time he steps out of the program, the rush of it hits him and it’s always deafening, it’s always rattling in the inside of his ears.

They never say anything.

They never do anything.

They simply stare at him with judgment in their eyes and the silent question of _why didn’t you do enough_?

Until four days ago when the skies had stopped looking blue at all and all Tony can see is the cosmic swirl of the universe and smatter of a billion stars, with the distant looming shadow of the Chitauri’s army, gradually approaching earth.

Four days ago, Tony had heard of what happened to Carol. Four days ago, he had fought tooth and nail to bring Rhodey back from his assignment in England, had scrambled for resources to replace War Machine’s presence, until push had come to shove and he had gone there himself to tell Rhodey to his face that he _needs_ _to go home now, Carol needs you_. Four days ago, Tony had watched the world fall apart all over Rhodey’s face, had seen the fear of loss because there’s no guarantee the life Carol holds in her belly will _survive_.

(I should have done more to keep you together, I should have fought harder, should have gone in your place.)

And from the moment Tony had gotten news of the lead in Kotor, he put himself out there and had left Vision in his place in London and for the next thirty six hours, Tony had immersed himself in Extremis and getting as much as he can out of the way, had delegated whatever he can delegate and had bought himself a few hours at most, coming in and out of it and feeling like he ran ten marathons, bleeding, and tired but hey, _you got the job done, you’re still getting it done and you know things are moving forward. You have to make sure that it moves forward, regardless of how unsafe it is for you because what you contribute now is going to make difference. It doesn’t matter if you can’t see the sky, it doesn’t matter if you haven’t spoken to anyone physically other than Rhodey, doesn’t matter if you’ve been everywhere in the world at the same time and yet cannot remember the feeling of what a flesh hand feels like._

At some point, his memories start to jumble up too and the thoughts of Bucky that had kept him warm on some nights since their first roll between the sheets together had started to fade amidst the all the chaos. _Because you know you’re turning into the program that you had designed to protect the world. You may still have whatever remains of your conscious mind in your grip, however small it is starting to feel, but you’re losing that too. You tell yourself you’re fighting the good fight that you’re doing this because so many people are dying, because you’re faster, you can do a hundred – no, a thousand things at once, because_ ** _you need to do more_** **_or more will die_** _. Your intentions are good – they always are. But you’re seeing the change, you’re feeling it and you know you need to stop, you were warned to stop, because your body can’t take it, you are not immortal, you are not a machine –_ ** _you are killing yourself._**

(You’re willingly cutting your own strings. It’s all you.)

Tony closes his eyes and feels the nausea hit him again and he brings the back of his hand up to cover his mouth, closes his eyes to reel the feeling in, trying desperately to get some measure of control, trying so hard to not crack _here_ , and _now_ , because goddamnit.

**_Goddamnit!_ **

“I’m sorry, Steve.” Tony croaks out, words slightly muffled by the back of his hand. “I’m so sorry, I’m a little disoriented; Bruce, buddy you mind giving me hand, please? Did you have to throw me so far away?”

Bruce doesn’t even answer him but is immediately beside him and helping off the ground, half assisting and half dragging him towards one the pull out bunks in the upper deck. Tony is briefly aware of Bruce telling him to get out of the suit, half aware of Bruce helping him out of it once he is on the bunk and helping him into something drier. Tony doesn’t fight him when Bruce starts to check his vitals, or when he inserts the cannula into the back of his hand.

“My god, Tony,” Bruce says, sitting beside him.

Tony refuses to lie down and remains seated with his back propped against the wall as he gathers the blanket around him, tucking his feet under him and trying to get comfortable in his cross-legged sitting position.

“I’m all right.’ Tony _lies_ , more to himself than to Bruce.

“You are not. Tony, we talked about this. Your body is not equipped –“ Bruce sucks in a breath and carefully lowers his voice. “—is not equipped to handle Exremis’ strain.”

Tony sways a little bit, the nausea churning. He feels Bruce wrap him another thermal blanket, pulling it over his head and pressing the fabric against his ears, holding it there.

“They hurt Rhodey’s family…” Tony murmurs, closing his eyes and seeing how _ashy_ Rhodey had looked like, how _silent_ he had been when Tony had delivered the news himself. “They hurt – they’re _hurting_ a lot of people.”

“You are of no good to _anyone_ if you’re a vegetable, Tony.”

Tony hears the words and understands it. He watches as Bruce’s lips move, telling him what damages he can currently see without doing a full range of tests. He watches the concern tug at Bruce’s face, aging him more. The words starts to slur at some point and Tony is forced to close his eyes and count one to ten _again_ ; Tony doesn’t dare open his eyes after, because he isn’t quite sure he’s prepared to see what he may see.

Instead, he forces himself to think of the present; he pictures realistic things within the past hour. He thinks of the wound on Natasha’s temple and broken pieces of data he had found lingering in the facility’s servers, he thinks of what a darn good job Billy had done and how fast he’s coming along with his abilities, and _damn, that kid is going to be a force to be reckoned with one day._

He thinks of James and how he had walked away from him that day, how he had _looked_ at him but had walked away all the same. He thinks of the feel of his hand, how it had been warm against Tony’s face, and the taste of his lips when Bucky had kissed him with such reverence. He thinks back to the first time, sometime during the crack of dawn when Bucky had smiled down at him and Tony had felt the brush of Bucky’s thumb against his brow, gods, he can’t erase that smile from his mind.

“Bruce.” Tony says, as he swallows a mouthful of needles when he sucks in a shaky breath, one hand peeking out from blanket to grasp at Bruce’s warmer hands. Tony’s fingers are _shaking_ and he feels both of Bruce’s hands cover his, steadying the tremors. “How’s Natasha?”

“She’s fine, her wounds have been dressed, she’ll be okay.” Bruce says, calm and voice steady.

“And Billy?”

“Passed out from exhaustion. He and Thomas are out cold and Spidey is not far behind. They’re all okay. They're tough kids.” Bruce gives his hand a squeeze.

“Good.” Tony nods, and regrets it immediately when he feel his head swim and the nausea threatens to overwhelm him; he opts to lean his head back against the wall instead. “That’s good to hear.” Tony murmurs, measuring his breaths and focusing on the warmth he feels coming from Bruce’s hands.

Bruce doesn't say much after and for a moment there is only them and soft hum of the quinjet’s engines. And Tony thinks he can just give up like this, that he can take the moment to rest, so long as he can feel the warmth encasing his hands, so long as there is something to anchor him to this reality, he will be _fine._

 _“_ I really think your body can’t handle this anymore. This Lone Ranger thing -- no, please listen -- this needs to _stop._ There has to be away to lock it down, give your body enough time to fully _heal._ Or at least adapt to _some_ degree.”

 _“_ It won't.” Tony murmurs. “It’s all up here, buddy. You already know that.”

“Then take the time off. Switch off, go somewhere --”

“Is that what you left?” Tony asks, and slowly cracks his eyes open and finds his parents dead faces looming behind Bruce’s shoulders. They stare at him wordlessly, ever so accusing and blank. Tony finds himself staring at Maria, at her bruised throat and her once beautiful eyes, one that had hid so much sadness from the strain of carrying the Stark’s name and the strength that had endured all of it gracefully. Tony feels the regret, thinks of how much he misses her, how he should have said _so, so many things_ , his eyes watering with the grief that even several decades later, still feels just as raw. “Did it ever work for you -- switching off?”

“It helped. With _perspective._ Tony, no one can stop you from doing _more._ But you can’t do _more_ if your mind is too far off the reserve. Look at you -- when was the last time you got a good night’s rest that isn't induced by your body shutting down because it can’t keep up with Extremis?”

Tony looks at his hand, still encased by Bruce’s warm hold and thinks back a little over a week ago, before he had gotten the phone call that had thrown him off the reserve completely; just when Tony thinks he is finding some sort of middle ground, just when he is starting to accept the idea that maybe finding comfort in the arms of the Winter Soldier is his way of redemption, to give hope and whatever tender parts of him he had left to someone who _wants_ redemption, who is _trying_ for it despite his insecurities, his fears, the nightmarish memories that follows him around like chains around his ankles, heavy with the weight of his sins and all the lives the Soldier had taken while fulfilling someone else's agenda.

(A part of you is drawn to him because you see a lot of yourself in him; it’s okay. No one has to know.)

And then Bucky had left, with nothing more than caution thrown in Tony’s face.

Tony knows it’s fear talking because it contradicts Bucky’s words of _I got you and I won’t let anything happen to you._ Tony understands that very well, he is a walking contradiction himself, all stemming from insecurities and countless mistakes. How many times has he 'pushed people away out of fear, when all he wants for them to do is _stay?_ How many lies had rolled off his tongue, how many times had he refused help, how many times has he said _always_ whenever someone had asked him if he’s alright? It’s the very reason his relationship with Pepper had encountered so many, many bumps along the way.

“Feels like forever ago.” Tony answers and swallows as he glances over at Howard.

“You have to give yourself _something_ , Tony. Find a way before you destroy yourself completely.” Bruce warns, and pulls his hand away.

Tony doesn’t say anything, neither agreeing or disagreeing. He hears Bruce sigh, and carefully lowers him on the surface to lie down, wrapping the blanket around him tighter. Bruce says something about getting some rest and Tony almost does.

He doesn’t know how long he dozes off for, but it happens without his control.

Up until Tony feels like he’s rolling to the side and suddenly falling and his face connects with the roof of the quinjet. The pain _flares_ and rips a cry right out of his throat and then he’s rolling backwards, thrown off as the quinjet spins out of control. Tony opens his eyes to see his teammates suspended in mid air, his hand reaching forward as he falls backwards into the burning and ripped tailend of the jet. He hears Clint _yell_ at them to grab onto something, to hold on tight as the quinjet veers to one side _sharply_.

Then Tony   _jerks_ sharply with another cry that leaves him seeing stars behind his eyelids as he feels his arm dislocate from its socket and the cold feel of the Winter Soldier’s hand holding on to him.

“I got you!” Bucky says, his hold on Tony's arm _tight_  and bruising, his other hand webbed firmly against the wall of the jet. Tony isn’t even aware that he’s _screaming_ with the pain flaring up his shoulder, as he is yanked up and against Bucky’s chest, momentarily being held in place until the quinjet tilts dangerously fast to one side. Tony feels Bucky push him agains the wall, metal hand across him and hold him in place when his world tilts to the left, just like the quinjet's sudden sharp turn, his back firmly planted against the metal wall of the jet;  webbing hits him smack against his middle then, holding him in place.

Bucky's arm remain across his shoulder; Bucky does not let go.

And Tony watches the chaos around him as if he’s having an out of body experience. He watches as everything slows down for a moment, as Clint engages continuously in evasive maneuvers because they’re being attacked in the air. They are outnumbered.

When Bruce jumps _out_ of the plane, and the cry of the Hulk somehow reaches his ears, Tony makes a decision that he knows he’ll really regret later.

Patching through quinjet’s telecommunication system is easy. Getting to the Stark satellite is easy, too.

Trying to break through six quinjet stealth protocols that are hot on their heels isn’t.

Not in his current shape because, oh god, everything hurts.

But Tony _tries._

And when he gets what he wants, when takes what he needs and gives Hawkeye the opening he is in desperate need of to fire back with what’s left of their jet's firepower, when their systems freezes and Tony locks all six pilots out, when Wiccan’s power stretches out like a shockwave and Tony drops out of Extremis like a man hitting the ground hard after a free fall, Tony watches his world turn red before he blacks out completely.

He hopes, that this time, he’s done enough.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, writing Steve is always hard. Always. It's never easy. Hell, writing Bucky is easier.
> 
> Anyway, long chapter is long. Thank you for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> ~~What the fuck am I doing?~~


	7. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am my own BETA. I am sure that despite 100 reads, I have missed a lot of DUH-SO-OBVIOUS typos.

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”  
**― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables**

Bucky feels the force of the emergency landing hit him, the thrum of the impact reverberating through him from where he is braced against the wall. He feels his throat go raw as the involuntary yell leaves him, teeth gritting as the quinjet skids over the ocean surface until it comes to a complete stop. The Atlantic waters floods in through the open tail-end then, water rising quick and fast as Bucky forces the ringing noise in his ears back and blinks the nausea and dizziness away from the corners of his eyes. He barely gets a full minute before he feels the water touch his chin, the cold acting like a catalyst as adrenalin starts pumping through his veins and instincts to _survive_ kicks in _._

He sucks in a deep breath as the water rises and goes over his head. He pushes off the wall, bracing his feet against it and crouching, pulling out the knife from his boot holster and quickly trying to cut himself free from the webbing holding his hand and forearm in place. It takes far too long to get it free, but the moment it gives way, Bucky quickly moves over to Tony, working the blade against the webbing on his middle. Tony is surrounded by rusty colored water, unmoving and unconscious, lungs filling up with the ocean and completely unaware of it, blood pouring out of his nose, mouth and ears, spreading  all over the space between them.

Bucky grits his teeth, exhaling and releasing air bubbles all around him until he cuts Tony free and securely holds him against his side. The plane is sinking fast and by the time Bucky manages to swim out through the broken opening, he is several meters below the surface. He spots Peter ahead of him, with Thomas swimming beside him and the both of them dragging an unconscious Billy between them.  Bucky gets to spare a look under his paddling legs to catch a glimpse of Steve releasing the inflatable life boats. They float up to the surface like giant orange jellyfish, leaving a trail of air bubbles in its wake. Bucky manages to snag one of the lines and goes up with it, and when he breaks the surface, he sucks in a loud gasping inhale.

He swims for the boat, grunting with a cry as he lifts Tony’s body upwards, throwing him onboard with little to no gentleness in the motion. He gets on too, sloshing water everywhere and coughing from the effort. He takes three seconds before he looks over the rim of the rubber boat, searching across the orange horizon for the others.

Peter, Billy and Thomas break the surface next and Bucky is yelling at Peter, who shoots a stream of his webbing against the side of the boat. Bucky uses it as a reel and starts pulling the kids in, his knees digging into hard rubber floor. Billy is unmoving when Bucky lifts him out of the water, carefully placing him on his back beside Tony as Peter and Thomas clamber on and collapses in breathless heaps. Peter is unable to keep himself up, and is lifting the mask off his head and fully revealing his face as he sucks in mouthful after mouthful of air, wheezing and grasping his chest like he’s having a panic attack, words that make no sense rolling of his tongue.

“Hey, hey!” Bucky grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a good shake, which seems to the trick. “We gotta find the others. We gotta get them on board. Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah – of course. Yeah, okay. I’m okay…” Peter says and Bucky gives him another shake before Peter is scrambling over to the other side of the boat, shooting out another stream of webbing to reel in the second lifeboat before it floats too far away.

“Thomas, they trained you in CPR; start resuscitating Billy. _Now_.” Bucky barks and that snaps Thomas out of the shock he’s in. “Don’t you dare stop, ya’ hear me?”

Thomas’ audible counting turns into background noise. Peter hops over to the second boat and starts calling out to Natasha and Clint, who, from when Bucky glances over his shoulder, had just broken the surface. Somewhere several meters away, Bucky spots the familiar green shape of the Hulk beating down the remains of the enemy’s quinjet, until he debris start to sink and the frustrated roar cuts through the spread of the Atlantic. A few seconds later, Steve breaks the surface too, and holds out the okay signal in Bucky’s direction.

It’s all Bucky needs.

Because he gets on his knees next to Tony, and start resuscitating him, matching Thomas’ pace and blowing air through Tony’s mouth. Billy chokes awake first, turning to his side and coughing out water. Thomas helps him off the floor and props him against the side of the boat, carefully placing a hand on Billy’s back and rubbing down the length of his spine.

But Tony doesn’t jerk awake, nor does he cough out any of the water he must have inhaled while submerged.

And Bucky finds himself feeling _fear_ coursing through his veins as he continues and _continues_ to resuscitate him, _come on, come on, come on, goddamnit goddamnit, Tony!_ Bucky doesn’t dare stop, doesn’t give up in _trying_. With the fear comes the anger and he feels himself lash out at whoever tries to stop him, because he loses count how long he’s been trying to resuscitate Tony. The anguish creeps in like the slow rise of the tide, and Bucky thinks he may just break Tony’s sternum if he applies any more force than necessary, watching the pale and wet crimson stained face before remain unresponsive.

“ _Come on_!” Bucky _snaps,_ desperate and so, so suddenly **_truly_** _afraid, because nothing is happening and they’re in the middle of the fucking ocean._ Because he had sworn to keep him safe, he had told Tony countless times that he wouldn’t let anything happen to him

Except he had.

(You’ve felt fear before, but not like _this_ . You’re so scared because now, as you try to revive him, you realize just how close you’ve gotten to him, how he’s gotten under your skin, how somehow, he’s not just a whim you want to keep indulging in, he’s not just someone who inspires you to _try_ harder. It’s more than that, you think. You don’t know when exactly it had turned to that, but maybe it had been that night when he said that you’re all he thinks about. Or maybe it had been the nights after that, when you had seen how he had finally come to realize that you are just James, that you are not Steve.

That you, the whim he indulges on too, is someone separate from the Soldier and Captain America’s best friend.

Or maybe it had been after that night, when he had shown you his world, had given you a glimpse of it when he had _spoken_ to you, had told you of his fears of what’s coming. You, virtually a stranger to him – he had put his trust in you without knowing.

And you had thrown it back at his face because you were scared. Oh, you were _so scared_.

Well, aren’t you scared _now_? How’s the weight of regret, by the way?)

And in that wake of feeling afraid, comes denial.

Because this can’t be happening _now._

( _You’re goddamn Ironman!)_

With it, comes _despair._

Bucky feels it _consume_ him like a fiery storm. But then he feels Tony’s chest rumble under his flesh fingers, just the slightest bit before Tony’s body _jerks_ as he turns to his side and retches out salt water and blood. Bucky feels something raw leaves his throat then, small and almost _vulnerable_ as he props Tony off the ground rubs his hand down the length of his back, until the retching stops and Tony collapses heavily, breathless and trembling, as pale the stars that are starting to dot the dusky sky. The _relief_ that floods Bucky then is visceral and all consuming, seeping into his bones and bring with it the sudden _exhaustion_ that makes his shoulder sag, as he forgets where he is, forgets that they had just been shot down from the sky and openly attacked and outnumbered by other quinjets. He forgets that they are floating in the middle of the Atlantic ocean as he scoops Tony into his arms and holds him as tight as he should have been.

He holds him and does. not. let. go.

Bucky thinks he hears Tony mumur his name, and he tucks Tony’s head under his chin, pressing his lips against his temple and apologizing, sorry after sorry and _god, I am so sorry,_ rolling off Bucky’s tongue as he watches Tony’s eyelids droop lower and lower, like he’s trying to resist losing consciousness. Bucky doesn’t dare look away, because if he looks away, he’s afraid Tony might just slip through his fingers.

Bucky sucks in a shaky, trying to calm the panic that had consumed him earlier, forehead pressing against Tony’s as Bucky takes the time to ground himself, tells himself that it’s okay, they survived, no one is chasing after them, everyone is alive and Tony is _fine._ He stares into the depths of the beautiful, incredibly beautiful brown eyes and watches as the lines around the corners softens, how Tony’s lips twitches _just_ so, in lieu of a smile even when Tony’s own strength betrays him.

Bucky doesn’t know how long he remains in that position, inhaling the scent of the ocean and the tell-tale faintness of tea tree and musk. He doesn’t know how long he takes comfort in the feeling of the slight warmth managing to seep through Tony’s sopping wet clothes and permeating through his own tactical gear. But he watches Tony with no care of what the world is like beyond the two of them, watches as Tony’s strength finally leaves him and the dark lashes flutter close.

He watches as Tony’s chest moves up and down, how it doesn’t stop.

Tony is _alive_.

It is dark when Bucky finally takes his gaze off Tony, when he looks up at the sky and sees the spread of the universe above his head, so vast in its stretch and seemingly close, and yet so, _so_ far away. It’s a little ironic how he feels his relationship with Tony is the same as the illusion of the closeness of the stars above him. Even if he raises his hands upwards, if he tries to grab for it, he would _never_ be able to touch it.

It is the hand that tentatively touches Bucky shoulder that makes him look over to his teammates and meet the calm look Bruce is directing at him. Bucky isn’t sure what Bruce sees on his face, but he watches as Bruce’s eyebrows pinch together.

“He’s tougher than he looks.” Bruce says, words that are meant to be a comfort, a balm

“Not always.” Bucky murmurs and looks at Tony’s unconscious face, like he had no cares in the world, like his body isn’t betraying him.

“Don’t let him hear you say that.” Bruce says.

And Bucky would have smiled had he not been so emotionally _drained._

He shifts positions and sits down with his back against the edge of the lifeboat, Tony’s head pillowed against his lap. This is where he meets the gaze of the rest of the team. This is where he sees Peter looking at Tony, worry all over his extremely young face, sandwiched between Billy and Thomas, both of whom are struggling to stay conscious, bundled up in their wet gear and trying to keep warm. This is where he sees Clint’s knowing look linger on him, busy in trying to salvage whatever communication equipment they had on them, with Natasha occasionally flicking a glance at him.

This is where he sees Steve’s smile, like he’s happy for him.

And how it looks so, _so_ heartbreaking at the same time.

“Hey, at least we’re alive right?” Clint says, with a dorky smile lighting up his features as he gives the little device he’s been trying to get to work in his hands a few sharp taps.

The sharp sound of static fills the space between them, and this illicits alerted responses as the rest of team stirs in their respective seats. Clint and Natasha props the small makeshift radio between them and tries to get some sort of frequency to send out a distress call. Realistically, Bucky knows that help won’t arrive till several hours later, assuming someone picks up on the Morse code they are forced to work with.

So when the approaching looming shadow from the distance suddenly appears, when the large shape of what looks like SHIELD’s hellicarrier gets closer and closer, causing their lifeboats to rock against the waves, they are all on high alert, with green creeping down from Bruce’s finger tips to the rest of his arm and Bucky standing between the hellicarrier and Tony, and Steve standing right in front of him.

“You kids are _something_ else.” A voice calls out from the deck through a megaphone.

“Son of a bitch.” Steve says, _relieved_ , and this is accompanied by _howls_ of _laughter_ from both Clint and Natasha and a _sigh_ from Bruce.

“Get your freezing motherfucking asses on my goddamn ship – I’d rather not deal with dead bodies. Ya’ll better _not_ be dead.”

Steve raises his hands in an okay sign and the figure that Bucky recognizes as Nick Fury, retreats, the megaphone crackling.

Bucky isn’t sure if he should feel relieved or a touch alarmed.

Things move by swiftly and what feels like a daze after the flooding relief on the lifeboats and Bucky finds himself being separated from Tony as soon as his wet boots touch the ground surface of the hellicarrier. He watches as the trained medical team whisks Tony away on a stretcher, his face obscured by an oxygen mask and straps being attached to his arm – Bucky cannot look away, cannot erase the vulnerability he sees as Tony lies pale and unconscious to the world. He remains rooted on the spot even after Tony and the medical team vanishes past the sliding doors.

Bucky feels the emptiness in his arms, which is about as deep and wide as the gaping hole and sense of loss he feels in the center of his chest.

It continues to expand even long after he’s stripped off his gear, after he’s cleared by the medical team. It stretches and grows beyond his scope of understanding even long after he has washed off the salt water from his skin, and long after the clear broth the kitchen staff had given all of them had gone cold in his bowl. Bucky is staring at the crackers that had come with it, at each crease and fold of the plastic wrapping, at the company logo in bright red and the ingredients listed in print so small, it’s a miracle it’s even readable. He is patient and quiet, like he always is, like how he’s been made to, and thinks of nothing more but the cold dread that had _consumed_ him to the point of blindness just less than twenty four hours ago.

He doesn’t know how long he remains seated there, he doesn’t bother counting the hours or bother with when the sun disappears and start to reappear over the horizon; time seems irrelevant despite the movement around him.

Because he is remembering how the cold had seeped into his veins, like being forced back into cryostatsis where the world had faded to nothing but black and sharp feel of ice cutting through muscle and nerve from within had felt like a _burn_ , until it leaves nothingness in its wake. He remembers looking down at almost yellow-white tint of Tony’s face, how his head had rolled off his shoulders like a rag doll, lifeless and boneless, heavy and _cold_ , god he had been so _cold_ , and how the feeling of helplessness, how the sheer _loss_ had paved the way to something far too _painful_ to put to words. Bucky remembers the fear vividly, and how even hours later, even after the _relief_ that had felt about as warm as the summer air, as sweet as spring, his hands are still shaking. Bucky’s senses are attentive, the Soldier in him alert – always, _always_ alert.

But his knees remain weak, like the sockets had been crushed.

He feels the quake of that _fear_ still crawl up the length of his thigh, fanning out and spreading all the way up his lower back. He feels the prickle of it under his feet, like he’s walking on needles. The Soldier in him tells him that Tony is fine, he’s alive, he’s being taken care off, you resuscitated him, your mission is a success.

Whatever that’s left of Bucky though remains about as nervous as the wreck that he had been on that lifeboat.

The cherry on the top of it all had been the realization that he had _almost_ lost Tony for a minute there.

He had almost lost him _several_ times in that plane crash alone.

Bucky can think of the hundred moments from between him catching Tony before he could fall through the opening of their damaged quinjet right to the moment that he had broken the surface of the ocean that Tony _could have_ died. He sees it all now, flashing in his mind as a vividly dangerous reminder of his failure.

Because he had not done anything about it.

Because he had not been around.

Because he had been _too afraid_ to be around.

The realization that his fear, his insecurity from years of torture suddenly and _strangely_ seems so… _small_ in comparison to the _loss_ he had felt for several long minutes when Tony’s chest had refused to rise back up after several and non-stop attempts at CPR. Bucky had felt the will in him _weaken_ in that moment, had felt about as vulnerable as that moment he had lost his grip on the fast moving train, all those years ago, and the white abyss had swallowed him. The idea that he might _lose_ Tony, that he had come so close to _losing him_ for damn _good_ , and the _regret_ at not saying anything, at not having the time to understand whatever it is that is between them – Bucky doesn’t know how his attraction for Tony had turned to this indescribable _need_ , this _dependency_ that he is consciously not willing to let go, that even now as he sits there as unmoving as the walls that surrounds the small communal room the team had been provided with, he cannot comprehend the logic behind his own emotions.

It’s too much.

He can’t wipe the look of Tony’s ‘dead’ face from his mind.

And that’s when his stomach _contracts_ so hard and shock from it all finally _sinks_ in, that Bucky forcibly swallows the involuntary gag, bringing the back of his hand to cover his mouth and feeling outright _sick;_ he can feel the pressure building up in his sinuses, spreading unwanted warmth all over his face and making his eyes water and his throat clog up and god, he could have died, he could have been a goner, he could have been _killed_ and _I didn’t do enough, I should have done more, I should have said more._ Bucky stands then and in his rush to get moving, to do something other than _sit_ and further _drown_ in the poisonous quicksand in his own thoughts, he bumps into the one person that he does not have the mental capacity to deal with yet.

“Buck…” Steve says, both hands firmly on both the curves of Bucky shoulders.

“You all right, Stevie?” Bucky asks, blinking the haze of the fear and dread away and focusing on the frown that is almost always etched on Steve’s face whenever Steve looks at him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m allright – are _you_?” Steve asks.

 _No,_ Bucky wants to say, but instead looks at Steve with the weight of a million words silenced by the weight of the lead that is his tongue. “Yeah,” Bucky says instead and sniffs a breath in as he wrinkles his nose in an attempt to calm himself down, looking down at his feet. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m…” Bucky tapers off and feels his teeth grind against the inside of his cheek until the bitter taste of blood coats his tongue.

“Do you want to see him?” Steve asks, slow, gentle, stepping into Bucky’s space, the warmth of Steve’s hands moving up the curve of his shoulder and pressing against his neck.

The question is about as startling as the warmth of Steve’s palms and Bucky looks up to find that heartbreaking smile on Steve’s face and all the understanding in the world that Bucky feels he doesn’t deserve.

“Can I?” Bucky asks, voice thick and clogged with whatever that is building up in his throat. The words roll past his throat in a tone he doesn’t even recognize.

And it’s truly a loaded question, a desire for approval, for so much more all rolled into one. It is an apology and a desire for blessing.

Bucky watches the sadness in the corners of Steven Grant Roger’s face be pushed aside and that sunny smile tug up his face, wrapped around what looks like genuine relief, had it not been for the brief spark fading like a dying star that only those who _truly_ knows Steve, would have noticed. He watches as his Stevie, this man who just refuses to give up on him no matter what, wraps his arms around him and gives him the anchor Bucky needs to steady his own knees before he pulls away and just like that, like a candle being snuffed out, Steve is cocking a cheeky eyebrow and putting on a show like he always had since the day he could walk.

And how Bucky’s heart breaks just a little bit more as he watches this unfold before his very eyes.

“Well, they don’t call me a man with a plan for nothing. Let’s go find him.”

“Steve, wait –“

But Steve doesn’t wait because he is turning his back on Bucky and walking down the hall, stopping a few times to ask for proper directions towards the medical bay until they both find themselves on a standstill, looking past glass at the figure lying on the bed, shirtless and numerous sensory pads attached all over the bruised but slowly rising and falling chest. Tony is about as white as the sheets that covers him, unmoving as the stillness of the room save for the constant beep and hiss of the oxygen mask that both of them can hear clearly beyond the walls and glass of the room.

The relief is about as liberating as it is confining.

They stand there, in silence, suddenly like two strangers in a holding room. And when Steve asks him, “What is he to you?”

Bucky murmurs the answer, and just for a fraction of a second, he thinks he understands what freedom can truly taste like. “Important.”

And just like that, Bucky sees the acceptance on Steve’s face and the grief hidden behind it, sees the loss and defeat, the envy and everything ugly that Steve is capable of having too – he’s just a man, he’s always been just a man – comes rising to the surface. The humane parts of him that isn’t America’s poster boy rears its head in that brief second, before it is shattered by Natasha coming up towards them, rushed and flushed with a dangerous grin on her face.

“We’ve got a lead. Fury is going to brief us. Interested?” She asks, something manic and almost terrifying gleaming in the surfaces of her green eyes.

Steve follows her wordlessly, something tightening in his shoulders.

Bucky too, this time doesn’t hesitate.

Because any chance to hurt someone and _something_ after putting those that are important to him in harm’s way is welcomed – Bucky feels calmness settle between his shoulder blades, feels his focus sharpen as he steps into the briefing room and looks at the information Fury presents them with.

Tony will be fine.

Bucky will damn well make sure that _nothing_ gets in the way of his team and friends again.

The Soldier is going to make sure nothing gets in Tony’s way again.

\--

The brightness above him is blinding.

And for the briefest heartbeat, Tony does not see the white ceiling panels and swears that he doesn’t smell the sharp and almost nauseating scent of disinfectant. For a moment, he thinks he may have been lying on his back on the white sands of Lankanfushi, the sun bright and warm above him and just beyond the reach of his hand, he sees Bucky’s silhouette sitting and reading a e-book.

His fingers, of course, grabs nothing, because he isn’t in the Maldives, but lying on his back on a bed that provides no comfort, skin clammy and the room _freezing_ cold. Tony turns to his side, shifting to wrap his arms around himself for warmth and feels the tug around his face and around his arms, drawing his attention to the multiple IV lines and the mask over his nose.

And the single dark eye on of an old man regarding him over the edge of his newspaper.

Tony sees the date and it takes a while for his mind to kick-start and actually calculate how many days it had been.

Fury does it for him.

“It’s been seventeen days, Stark.” The newspaper rustles as Fury folds it over his leg and looks at Tony with exasperation and dare Tony thinks, _concern_. It isn’t a look that suits Fury, because it makes him look far more wrinkled and ancient, which he actually is, Tony thinks, as he stares at the creases on Fury’s forehead; he even attempts to count them. Old people seem to have to natural ability to look disarming and if Tony didn’t know better, he’d think Fury was a gentle old man.

Tony does know better though, and the retort is forming at the tip of his tongue, along with the neurones that had finally managed to connect, already thinking of what he had missed, what had happened, and _oh god, the_ _team!_ Tony’s hands are shaky when he reaches up to yank the mask off his face and this is where the whole Fury-is gentle-conundrum goes into overdrive; because Fury’s age _cements_ itself all over his face, how tired he is, how worn from war and battles and schemes and losing his team and people; it truly shows when he _sighs_ and reaches forward to press calloused hands over _both_ of Tony’s, pulling his hands away from the mask. “Come on, come on, don’t do that – we could do with _less_ trouble with your sorry ass.”

The mask comes off and Tony blinks and sucks in mouthful of the air around him, feeling the bitterness in his mouth and registering the dryness, too. Swallowing _hurts_ , and Tony can’t stop the wince when he involuntarily does so, a _noise_ ripping right out of him. He sounds about as vulnerable as he feels and he takes the gesture of kindness from _Fury_ , of all people, with a little grain of salt when a cup of water and a straw is brought to his lips and a napkin is pressed to his chin.

The entire thing leaves Tony _exhausted_ and he feels like looks - pale, weak, damp and hair greasy and skin clammy, and _cold_ \- as he drops against the bed when he _sags_ , almost breathless and stares at the ceiling.

“The team…”

“Is in Kiev catching big fish.” Fury answers, leaning back on his chair. “While you were taking your apparently much needed beauty sleep, your team and by extension, the _world_ , had come together and worked in obliterating branches that had a hand in the attacks we had seen weeks ago. There has been multiple arrests and several body bags. So the Accords and its Taskforce are doing what they were intended for. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Tony closes his eyes and shudders under the cold that feels like needles against his skin, burrowing deeper into the hospital blankets. “Why is it so goddamn cold?”

“Because you’re sick, Stark.” Fury leans over, lips thinning when Tony _scoffs_ at the statement. “I’m serious, Tony. You started running a fever about nine days ago. Whatever it is you did to yourself is preventing you from completely going six feet under, but at the same time, well, the fever hasn’t subsided completely. Apparently, your genius ass forgot that little tinker when programming the nanites, hmm?”

Tony _curses_. “How high?”

“A hundred seven.” Fury pauses for a beat and then cocks his eyebrow.

“Always smashing records; yay.” Tony mutters and shudders again much to his dismay.

“You may be Ironman, Stark. But you sure as hell ain’t immortal.” Fury says, as he picks up a tablet from the bedside table and places it on Tony’s lap; he then leans back against his chair and picks up his newspaper. Tony watches from the corner of his eye how Fury absorbs himself in the sports section as he picks up the tablet and adjusts the bed to a slightly more upright position. Fury doesn’t budge from his seat or flinches from his reading. It isn’t until Tony is reading into the reports and his head starts _pounding_ with the on-setting headache of the clusterfuck he’s _seeing_ that Fury talks over the edge of his newspaper. “We got a problem.”

“No fucking _shit_.” Tony says as he reads reports after reports of those who have been apprehended having ‘talked’.

Tony flips through one report after the other, mind racing as he sees the information lying right in front of him. The flight recorders of the crashed quinjets had been recovered and since then, SHIELD had shared their information with the Taskforce because they had to, because several of their people had been involved in the flight crash, and since then, the chain of investigations had led to numerous rebel arrests all across the globe. But Tony isn’t interested in all that, because he’s watching the interrogation videos, one after the other and the most poignant thing it all is that the detained rebels speak of someone within SHIELD _and_ the Taskforce feeding them the information. The quinjet designs, the weapons and armor, but more importantly, the _information_ on several key individuals and their families. Tony notes that his name is also on the hitlist, so is Hank Pym, and Steven Strange, the Richards and even Scott Lang and his daughter Cassie, ex-wife and even Paxton. Tony sees Rhodey’s and Pepper’s name on the list, along with Happy. And He sees Danielle Rand and those close to him, he even notices a few key business partners who had made significant contributions to the Accords, some of whom are even liaising with SHIELD. It hits Tony like a tidal wave peppered with an odd sense of deja vu; whoever was behind this were targeting the financiers of the one thing that is holding the world’s heroes together, _making_ them work together. Tony flips back to the reports of listed _deaths_ during the attacks on American soil and he sees it there; the brains and money, who happened to be shopping in the mall that day, or happened to be on their annual physical, or just _happened_ to be on that first class flight to god knows where – Tony hears his heart _drum_ in his ears, and when he looks up he sees Fury watching him, a grim line on his lips.

“Someone in SHIELD is talking. We know that because that’s where they got those quinjet designs from. We don’t know _what’s_ been leaked, what _else_ they have. But someone is talking.”

Tony stares at the hit list as his mind turns. “Hypothetically, if we get one rat, _you_ can work with that, right? To get the other hidey-hiding rats? Hypothetically? I mean, I’m sure with your decorated resume, information extraction must be a forte.” Fury doesn’t respond but Tony watches as his lips thin and his lone eyebrow slowly go up to his hairline. “I’ll take that look as a yes.” Tony shuffles the open screens on his tablet and starts typing up a quick e-mail. “Come to think of it, Stark Industries have not been doing well with public press conferences. Have you seen our temporary facility in DC? We’re leasing until construction is done! It’s got a nice open air lobby – some new artsy hipster concept, about energy flow and soft lines that boosts productivity –“

“You should tell your team.” Fury cuts through the jargon.

“Stark Industries does not associate with the Avengers’ heroic adventures. We’re separate things now, did you forget?” Tony sends off his e-mail, asking his PR team to invite every press that’s been knocking on PR’s doorstep for a statement from Tony Stark; they’ll get what they want, all wrapped up in a shiny red and yellow bullseye.

“Stark –“

“ _SHIELD_ is _my_ team.” The words come out a little sharp, and Tony doesn’t miss the grim line on Fury’s mouth, nor does he miss the soft look around the corner of his eye. “Make it count, Nick.”

The sigh that leaves Fury’s mouth is soft, as he folds up his newspaper and tucks it under his arm. “I take it you don’t want your team knowing?”

Tony knows what Fury is doing and he’s not buying it.

“I just told you. And now you’re gonna go tell Phil. And you guys are gonna take of it, set up a perimeter and cover my very vulnerable ass. Am I missing something here?” Fury doesn’t say anything but shakes his head and turns to head for the door. Just before the door slides shut, Tony calls out, “I need a ride to DC!”

“Let me know once you _can_ move your ass.” Fury mutters, but not unkindly and just before the door shuts, he adds, “Oh and give Rhodes a call, would you?”

And just like that Tony’s humor disappears completely from his face and he is staring at the tablet on his lap. He remembers why he had ended up in this predicament, and who he had been replacing to begin with. All things considered, Tony is _glad_ he had taken Rhodey’s place, because Rhodey had enough on his plate to deal with. Had Rhodey been there when the plane had gone down, with Carol confined in the hospital and her pregnancy already at risk, the news that her husband had gone down in a plane would have devastated her. Tony doesn’t want to think of what _that_ might result in. He doesn’t want to think of the one question that monster whispers in his ear, like an endearing lover:

_What if Jim died? What would you do? You’re always losing~ It’s all your doing~_

Tony scrunches his eyes shut, shaking the voice away and before he can hear more, his head falls back on the pillow as he opens his eyes and connects to the network through Extremis. It feels like nothing as it always is, the familiar endless white swallowing him up before he initiates a call and Rhodey’s face and number appears on a screen before him; here, in this particular headspace that he had created, the quiet and calm where no monster can whisper in his ear, Tony finds comfort and relief. It’s ironic that something that brings him comfort and safety, this white office of his, is the very thing that is slowly pulling him apart, like a lose thread coming further undone.

 _Well,_ Tony thinks humorlessly as the call continues to ring, _that thread would have belonged to a very nice and comfortable Rick Owens sweater, anyway._

“Tony?” Rhodey’s voice sound a touch unsure, shaky in its tenors; Tony knows that tone. It’s Rhodey trying to keep his shit together.

“Hey pudding-bear!” Tony chirrups, and hears something clatter to the ground from the other end of the line. “Easy, there --”

“Where - _what the fuck! Where the fuck are you --”_

“I’m allright.” Tony says, voice steady as he allows Rhodey to have his moment of weakness, to let his temper and rage grind against the edges of his tone and rake around the pits of his throat.

“Anthony fucking Stark --”

“Somewhere in the Atlantic, with -- well I guess you can call them friends. Of some sort. Good friends, even.”

“I have been trying to reach you -- that information you sent, those coordinates history and facial shots from those quinjets, the pentagon is working on them and so is the Taskforce; they’ve dispatched people already. Tony, _how_ did --”

“What information?” Tony blinks, and wracks through his memory as he tries to recall if he had sent it out to Rhodey because he had been sure he had _only_ sent it _Fury_.

“The _information_ of your pursuers -- Jesus, Tony, do you even _remember_ what you did? You called me, and got my voice message. You told me to get Carol and out of DC because it’s not safe. For _me_.”

Standing in the middle of his white office, Tony stares up Rhodey’s caller ID and tries and _tries_ very hard to remember _when_ he had given Rhodey the call. He can barely remember much from the moments while they were being fired at, barely recalls what information he had extracted from the quinjets, or what the pilots and cred _looked_ like. He had taken what he had been able to at the time and had fed it directly to fury just as all their communications and controls had gone dead stick.

“I can’t remember.” Tony says out loud as a response both to Rhodey and the questions _flooding_ his consciousness. And maybe it’s a delayed response, maybe it had been a reaction to something his consciousness had processed _at the time_ but he can’t seem to recall at the present. Tony is sure he’ll remember it at some point, and he’s usually quicker with processing information dumps; he isn’t sure if the fact that he is a lot slower _now_ is a warning sign or a prelude to worsening condition and side effect of Extremis.

“Jesus Tony --”

“How’s Carol?” Tony interrupts, returning to the main purpose of the call. “I am all right, I promise. I called to check in on you and your wife because…”

“She’s all right, Tony. We’re all right. I got out of DC just as you said. Here, hold on a second, will you?” Rhodey says and noise of movement and furniture scraping against the floor reaches Tony’s ears. He listens to Rhodey’s footsteps and a door open, and him conversing with Carol. He hears Carol’s voice pitch hitch with worry, with her bombarding Rhodey with questions if Tony is okay, and where is he, good god, is he all right! Tony can feel something warm flutter for the briefest second in his chest, as Rhodey re-assures her. “Hey Tones, I know you’re probably losing your shi- your mind right now, but here, I’m switching to video call so you can see that Carol and I are really _okay._ All right?”

“Sure thing, buddy.” Tony says, and accepts the switch as the screen before him changes to the live feed of Rhodey and Carol’s faces. Rhodey looks better off than Carol, who looks worn around the edges and very visible circles under her eyes. Tony recognizes the place as one of the safe houses he had helped arrange for the both of them from the painting on the wall. It’s the safe house in Wallace, Idaho. “Hey Carol. You all right?"

“Yes, a lot better, thank you, Tony.” Carol says and the smile that pulls at her face is soft, reaching the corners of her eyes and making blue sparkle. And Tony wants to ask about her pregnancy, wants to ask if their baby is safe and turning and tossing in her belly like it should, but the words can’t form. And it must have been obvious in the _silence_ because Carol’s smile widens. “We’re _all_ okay.”

Tony feels his heart rate _shoot up_ at the _grin_ splitting his best friend’s place, because the camera pans over to a crib and right there, in the middle of blankets and pillows and stuffed animals, is the prettiest little thing, with legs kicking and wispy hair that promises a full head of curls in the future. Tony feels his lungs stop working as he stares at the smallest, most beautiful face on a child, with eyes just like Carol and skin as smooth as Rhodey's favorite chocolate milkshake. Tony feels his hand come up to his mouth, feels his chest constrict with the sheer _relief,_ and god, Rhodey looks so goddamn _happy_.

“Tones, this is Liana Rose. Li, say hi to Uncle Tones, the most badass uncle you’re ever gonna have.”

Tony feels an excuse to end the call come right then, just as the high pitched laughter bubble right out of him, nervous and relieved, awkward and unsure, so happy and so proud, and so suddenly afraid for Rhodey’s family because his name is on the hitlist. And if his name is on the hitlist, by extension, Carol isn’t safe and neither is Liana. Tony watches as Liana makes a gurgling noise and waves a fist, one leg jerking and shaking her entire yellow-onesie clad frame.

“Hey baby girl,” Tony says and feels the call suddenly disconnect as he gasps out loud in the middle of the bed and feels the salty wetness on his cheeks. Tony doesn’t remember when he had sat up straight, except that now he’s keeling forward and bringing a hand to cover his mouth as the _sobs_ rips right out of him and he doesn’t know what’s happening, he doesn’t know why he’s coming apart like this, or why the _sobs_ won’t stop pouring out of him. He can’t even imagine what would have happened to Rhodey if Carol hadn’t made it, if Liana hadn’t made it -- he doesn’t want to imagine what it would like to see everything taken away from Rhodey, for him to go through living and _knowing_ the weight of having been _robbed_ of a family, or friendship, or everything he had worked hard to keep.

Tony never wants Rhodey to ever go through what he had been through, because Rhodey is a better man, a good man, and goddamnit, goddamnit, someone is going to be after him.

A sharp huff and sobbing breath leaves Tony, and the moment he exhales long and sharp, he quickly straightens and presses shaking hands against his eyes, grits his teeth to keep the sobs down as his shoulders tremble and he attempts to count backwards from a hundred until the noise in his throat dies down to a slow hum and then finally to silence. Tony takes slow breaths before he reconnects the call and when he hears Rhodey pick up, he tells him to not come out, to stay low and that no matter what they see on the news, don’t trust it. He tells him to trust no one, that he needs to keep his family safe _first_ above everything.

Tony _begs_ him to do just that. Makes him _promise_ to do just that.

And Rhodey knows, because Rhodey always knows and he agrees.

Tony knows he doesn’t have a lot of time and the sooner they take care of the mess that’s shaking the world’s confidence to its core, the lesser of a target Rhodey and his family will be.

 

\--

Tony looks through his queue cards from where he is sitting on the chair, with his team of estheticians fussing with his hair and his face, dabbing and blending concealer under over the puffy and very prominent bags lining his eyes. Pepper is standing adjacent from him, with Phil beside her as she clenches and unclenches her hands, lower lip between her teeth in what Tony knows is her nervous tick. Pepper may look as impeccable as always, decked in an faltering Yves Saint Laurent gray one button blazer pant suit, hair up in a high ponytail and makeup finish smooth over her beautiful face. But none of the glamour and designer chic can hide how her shoulders are drooped and withdrawn, they way Tony remembers finding Pepper lying in their bed, curled in on herself when Tony had been gone for days on Avenger’s business or Ironman’s business. It doesn’t hide the continues chewing of her lower lip, how it dulls the color of nude lipstick and reveals the pale pallor underneath, the stress that is carefully hidden and compartmentalized.

“I won’t make a spectacle of myself.” Tony says, and watches as Pepper sucks in a slow shaky breath.

“It’s just that…” Pepper doesn’t say it; the words just doesn’t form and instead, she turns around and starts pacing.

Tony had been forthcoming with Pepper, had told her that he’s doing it both for the company but primarily to lure out a target. So while Pepper and Stark Industries will be getting their cake, which is something Pepper is quite happy about, the danger of willingly becoming a target doesn’t’ escape Pepper’s notice.

She’s _terrified_.

Tony waves off the team and meets Phil’s gaze, “Can you give us a minute?”

“You’re out in five.” Phil murmurs and ushers the rest of the team out of the small room to give Tony and Pepper their privacy.

“Hey, hey,” Tony reaches out for Pepper and stops her from her pacing, fingers curling around the curves of her slender shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to be okay. I got this. Now, give me a hug for old time’s sake? Pretty please~?”

Pepper throws her arms around Tony, and Tony doesn’t hold back when he wraps his own around her, inhaling the soft and sweet scent of her perfume and that familiar smell of fresh berries from her conditioner. And just for the briefest moment, Tony thinks that the world beyond the warmth in his arms is all he has, like he had once upon a time ago.

Tony knows what he is about to do is a gamble. He doesn’t know what to expect. He is stepping into minefield with little to nothing but his birthday suit on; he doesn’t know what to expect, he doesn’t know if the shield rat or _rats_ will take the bait. What he does know is that innocent people cannot be collateral damage anymore. What he does know is that the people on that list – whether it is complete or not – had a lot more to lose than Tony. Tony doesn’t have a family, doesn’t have a wife or a lover or children that he’s leaving behind. He had Pepper and Rhodey

“Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure.” Tony says and for the first time in what feels like _years_ , he feels _fearless_. “I’m not alone. People that matter – they’re here, or around. That’s why I got you, don’t I? I dunno what’s going to happen, if this press conference is going to be a success at all and serve its intended purpose -- but if the worse happens --

“Tony…” Pepper is shaking her head.

“ _If_ the worse happens -- promise me, you’ll never change.” Tony cups Pepper’s face. “That you’ll always do the best thing, because I know you’re good, through and through. You’ll take care of _everything_. Won’t you?”

“This isn’t goodbye, Tony…”

“Of course not, Miss Potts. This is a pep talk!” Tony chirps and watches as Pepper blinks away the tears gathering at the corner of her eyes.

“Will that be all, Mister Stark?”

“That’ll be all Miss Potts.” Tony murmurs and wraps his arms around her one more time before pressing a kiss to her temple and pulling away. “Show time!”

“Go get them, tiger.” Pepper murmurs, with a small shaky smile tugging on her lips.

The world around him dissolves into a series of bright flashes as Tony steps out of the room and into the sea of reporters, making his way towards the podium. He knows where his teams are situated, some dressed down as reporters, some as civilians coming to watch the public spectacle being held in the open air space of Stark Industries temporary DC office. Tony spots a few familiar faces, some of the Taskforces heroes peppering the scene here and there; people are still gathering, and from a distance, Tony can hear the screech of tires of cars hurriedly coming to a stop or hurriedly parking as people rushes to the gathering. Tony looks up at the screen a few feet ahead of him and starts to read out the carefully drafted speech by Stark Industries’ team, about coming together and continuing to provide light for all mankind, their integrity and stewardship and how they intend to assist with reliefs and fund programmes to help affected families get back up on their feet -- it is everything he had asked for.

And really the speech is quite beautiful and Tony can see people come to a hush and camera lights flashing slow to a stop. Somewhere in the middle of that speech, Tony stops reading all together and looks down at the surface of the podium, at his hand that is shaking because the tremors _never_ go away now. When he looks up, he sees Phil giving him a questioning look, he sees Pepper looking mildly alarmed at his side and the endless sea of faces looking confused at the sudden pause. Tony pulls his tinted glasses off, watching as the crowd continues to grow as the words tumble out of his mouth with a bit huff that is partly an exhale and partly a bemused sound.

“Honestly, guys -- the lovely speech will continue to tell you that Stark Industries is not going to stop its support or its development or its projects to further clean energy and planet sustainability. Long before our little planet was thrown into shit be it from foreign creatures from space or from individuals or organizations who just want to start trouble, we were always striving forward and supporting this country. Many of you recall my old nickname, merchant of death? And the new one, the messiah? When our soldiers were being sent off to war and when they were outgunned by our enemies, Stark Industries stepped in and started manufacturing weapons to arm our men and our country. We were better, we were stronger, we were the _best_ . Or one of the best. As Ironman and well, the brains and pretty much well, _everything_ , of Stark Industries, when those creatures from space and gods who wanted to make mankind kneel before them came _here_ , I supported our heroes, as Ironman and as Tony Stark. Questionable methods sometimes, I am aware. And when our team dissolved momentarily, I didn’t abandon the world and this country. And I don’t plan to change that gameplay anytime soon.”

Tony straightens his back and tilts his chin up a little higher. He suddenly spots Peter from his peripheral vision. If Peter is in DC, that means that the team is back from their assignment in Kiev. Tony scans the rest of the room, watching out for more familiar faces as he continues to speak.

“As long as _I’m around_ ,” Tony taps the surface of the podium with his fingers as he spots Natasha and Clint. “Stark Industries will _always_ support the earth’s safety and best interest, in whatever way it can. As SHIELD’s director, let it be known that we will _not_ cower at the face of these attacks. Of this outright action of _bullying_ . We are not afraid.” And just there, behind the CNN reporter, he sees Steve and beside him, Bucky who is looking at him with eyes so wide that Tony wonders what he might be thinking as he meets that gaze and adds, “ _I am not afraid._ ”

Bucky blinks

“So whoever you are or _whatever_ you are, we’re not going anywhere. Not Stark Industries, not SHIELD, and certainly not those heroes out there working with the Taskforce and the United Nations. Do your goddamn worst.” Tony shrugs and flashes the public a smile. “Questions?”

The roar of the media sweeps all across the stretch of the space around Tony and it takes thirty minutes to field questions and answer the best he can before Phil signals him to step back and retreat, as he gets security to start clearing the perimeters. Tony feels like the ground had come up to his throat as he walks past the sliding doors and into the building lobby where the cool air fills his lungs. He brushes past SHIELD’s security and tells them to help the team outside if need be as he makes his way to the bathroom in the far end. He knows there are guards beyond the door as he turns the tap on and sticks his shaking and clammy hands under the cold water, trying to calm the tremors down that is going all the way his arms and spreading down to his knees.

He had sounded brave.

He had sounded perfect.

But now, within the private confines of the small tiled space, Tony doesn't feel as brave, doesn’t feel as sure. He is turning the tap off when both guards armed to the teeth steps into the bathroom.

“Sir, agent Coulson confirms clearing the premises. Awaiting further orders sir -- how do you wish to proceed?”

The muffled voice by the mask throws Tony off for a minute but he shakes his head. “I’ll be with them out in a second.”

“Yes, sir.” The guard nods.

And Tony is turning away to dry his hand when he feels arms circle him from behind and the explosion of pain somewhere in his back, the sound of the silencer muffled gunshots reaching his ears. He’s sliding down on the floor, feeling the heat somewhere in his back spread as fluid starts to quickly fill his lungs and erupt out of his mouth. Tony tastes acid and blood, regret and something akin to fear as he stares at the two masked faces of his guard detail stare down at him as he bleeds all over the cheap gray tiles of the shitty building they had been forced to lease.

Tony watches as both guards straightens and exits the bathroom fluidly.

Tony tries to move, tries to _think_ past the oncoming darkness that is swallowing him and he barely manages to get the suit to half encase him, barely claws against his consciousness to get Friday to track those two. He doesn’t know how far he makes it, how far the thrusters on his arm takes him past the door, if he even gets past it all together. He doesn’t know if he manages to get the SOS out, if he manages to get any attention as the numbness in his lower extremities solidifies and spreads all over his upper body, making his lungs seize because he doesn’t know how many bullet wounds he had, if they had emptied the magazine on the flesh of his back.

But he hopes as he closes his eyes, and feels the life drain out of him, sees blue eyes staring down at him so wide, sees James -- _oh god, James --_  look at him, _really_ look at him -- Tony _hopes_ as he chokes his name out, as he reaches out for Bucky, like he always does when he wakes up when the sun rises.

(But Bucky is always gone later; Bucky isn’t part of that memory.)

Tony hopes he doesn’t disappear again.

Hope is all he had.

\--

And hope is about as crippling as it is empowering.

Bucky is cradling Tony’s head as he bleeds out, as the chaos erupts in the lobby and Phil barks out for back up and the medical team. Bucky feels his world shrink down to one moment, one focus, like it had several times when the Soldier takes full control of a situation that he can’t handle, because he can’t handle this, he can’t handle the gushing blood pouring out of Tony. He can’t handle the seemingly lifeless body lying on the floor, half encased in gold and red, and eyes shut like Tony is simply taking a nap, had it not been for the pool of crimson he is lying in.

Bucky can’t handle this.

He can't wrap his head around the evidence of his failure, how it is just lying there and _leaving him._

(No, no, no, no, nononono--)

But the Soldier can handle the information and surveillance trial Friday is feeding to him, and SHIELD and the team and he doesn’t think when he stands, and picks the fallen arms on the floor and pulls his visor on, doesn’t think when he reaches up and pulls out the earpiece from his ear and starts following the escape routes whoever had done this.

It’s a bottleneck kind of pursuit, and Bucky doesn’t hear Steve call out to him, doesn’t hear Natasha or Clint or even Peter.

Because he doesn’t think when he cuts through the streets of DC from a stolen motorcycle; his voice focuses on the coordinates flash in the corners of his tinted visors, as Friday dictates routes and keeps a close eye through DC’s CCTV network.

They don’t get far, those two guards.

Bucky only needs to get ahead of them and catches them in an alley, as SHIELD agents surrounds the perimeter and Spiderman drops down. Steve joins the fray as Sam sets him down and, Falcon’s wings retracting, as Steve informs them that they’re surrounded, that they should give it up.

And they don’t exactly try very hard to escape, because they step out of the car and pull their helmets and masks off, revealing two familiar SHIELD agents that makes some of the arms agents surrounding the space inhale sharply because they recognize them. Bucky doesn’t pay attention to any of that though, because he’s watching how they adjust their jawlines, like how one would stretch their jaw after smiling too much; it’s all the warning Bucky needs because he’s racing forward, crossing the distance between himself and the two responsible for harming Tony, for daring to even _touch him._

Bucky has two metal fingers in one of their mouths, the closest one, stopping the sharp bite down to activate the compound stored in the molars, an old, old trick of Hydra because these kind of agents, these little _ants_ they send out to start _trouble_ have orders to die on the spot if they are caught. Bucky pins the soldier down, the muffled cries going unheard as he wraps fingers around the man’s throat and cuts off his air, preventing him from biting down until he falls unconscious.

The other one drops the ground and foams at the mouth.

(But that’s okay, you only need _one.)_

Bucky steps back as the body drops to the floor, unconscious and Spiderman webs him up tight and secure. Bucky meets Steve’s gaze, who is looking at him with horror.

“Get _all_ his teeth out.” Bucky - the Soldier - growls out, waits as Steve nods before he turns to head back to where Tony is.

(Mission status: unsuccessful.)

 

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life happened and the last bits of this chapter had taken a plummet down in terms of emotional quality in my opinion -- I apologize for the overdue update.
> 
> But there you go! I am so done writing action scenes. I am not confident with this chapter but you know what -- just ugh I want to move forward. 
> 
> More to be hashed out later. Or so I hope. Oh whatever. THANK YOU FOR READING!


	8. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own BETA. I am sure that despite 100 reads, I have missed a lot of DUH-SO-OBVIOUS typos. I am always editing as I re-read

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”  
**― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables**

 

  
They say that only in the darkness, can you see the stars.

And if there is something that Bucky is familiar with for the longest time, it’s the darkness. The only difference is that for almost a century, he had kept his eyes closed in the enshrouding embrace of that black veil, always watching from afar, always seeing something happen with no power in his limbs, in his thoughts, nothing but the screams that never manifests quickly, but had always been so deafening in its encompassing loudness and grief within the walls of his own skull.  And on the days he remembers seeing the light, be it candles on a very dry cake during those days of famine and hunger, when his family, distant faces now, had managed to scrape by and put together something for his youngest sibling’s birthday, or when he remembers wolfing down hotdogs by the bay, the last of his dollar, that last of his anything really, with a skinny blond boy who had wolfed down his hotdogs just as quick, those little specks of light had always faded into the shadows, swallowed and drowned by the pull of unconsciousness when the surging electric charge had pulsed through his body and all but deep fried his mind into submission and almost blissful oblivion.

And when you go through it one time after the other, eventually, you stop keeping your eyes open; _what’s the point?_

Bucky had kept his eyes closed, even during the fights within when he had struggled against the invisible bonds holding him obedient.

He had always hated the soldier, hated how his hands would rip through flesh, hated feeling the crimson heat seep in between his nails. He wishes that he had been able to cover his ears and block out the shrill screams, or the horrid sound of newborn suffocating in its sleep. He wishes he can unsee the way their heads blows off with just one bullet, coming apart like crimson feathers and spilling over printed pillows and soft toys, or how the fear that reflects in the eyes of the aged and elderly takes the form of a hollowed and masked monster, with their frozen expression reflecting over the surfaces of black visors. He wishes, that during those first few times, when even in the darkness he had kept his eyes open, he wishes he had known better.

That he should have just kept it closed right from the start.

(Because you’ve never stopped being afraid.)

Except now, it’s not even dark anymore. It had started with a little grains of light that illuminated the blackness into something old and gray, a touch faded around the corners, like bad television reception.

And it had only gotten brighter.

Now, his memory is fully colored, and on a good day, he’ll recall how the mustard on those hotdogs had tasted a little too sour, or how the candles on his sister’s cake had been white, green and yellow, something that had clashed with redness of crumb-coated cake. He can see its very muted hues, almost a haze of pink from behind his closed eyelids, can guess from memory of too long ago what blue and green and red and white and gold and silver and purple would look like.

But never quite daring to open his eyes fully.

(You were too afraid to get used to something that was just going to be taken away, anyway.)

When you learn to live your life with your eyes closed, when you learn to live with the monster within, the one that you’ve become too, because it’s all you’ve got, because you know that it’s all you’ll ever have, you forget the need to open your eyes anymore. You live the rest of your life looking at the light of the world through the filtered hues of your eyelids. Even when you’ve broken free from those invisible shackles, even when you had been on the run and hiding, there had been no need to open your eyes, because the Soldier, like he always had and still is, looks out for the softest parts of you.

The soldier had told you - had forced you - to keep your eyes closed.

The soldier had guarded that soft part of you that had dared peek from behind dark lashes, just a _tiny_ sliver, when Steve had come for you, had saved you and brought you ‘back’ because men like you, displaced from time, no longer have homes.

(But you can still be brought 'back'; ‘back’ is nowhere, but ‘back’ is wherever, till the end of the line.)

That sliver had parted a little more when your feet had touched American soil and had remained hooded under the shadow of your eyelashes all the way through the trials, and that ordeal in Nevada and numerous therapy sessions in between, through the surgeries for both the arm and chip in your head, the fights, the missions, and galas, the days spent in a mansion far too empty for anyone, far too eerie in its loneliness and silence. You thought to yourself that you do not need more, that this tiny sliver of a window opening you up to the world that is far too bright with far too many stars is more than enough.

Except one day you had opened your eyes all the way up, wide and all seeing, and you remember staring at the brightest smile, sheepish and shy, _and god, he is so beautiful,_ you remember thinking then, as the embarrassed pinkness had dusted over Tony’s cheeks and the tips of his ears when you had asked him if your honest answer, your silly sounding one liner that had been the cause of your distraction during your spar with Steve had worked.

(I was thinking about you, you had said.)

You _know_ it had worked, because the smile doesn’t dull down the way your memories had when they are taken away from you, whenever Hydra had deemed  it unnecessary, a mere distraction and far too good and far too _useless_ for someone like _you_ to have. That smile had _glowed_ incandescently, with a laugh that makes you want to smile too, sometimes, when you are alone and losing yourself in _those_ memories.  You had thought, in a moment of utter weakness, that maybe keeping your eyes open this time and seeing that one bright star would not be so bad.

That he’s worth it.

(You’re worth _everything_.)

Because he isn’t _just_ a star.

He is the _sun_.

The brightest and biggest of them all.

Until reality hits you.

And you had closed your eyes so tight – so, _so_ goddamn tight – and had looked away when everything in you, those soft parts, and even the hardened ones, even the Soldier to a degree in his silence and his half assed of a resistance, had told you otherwise.  Because even if you had gotten pockets of bravery that had made you drop everything, rush all the way across DC and stand in the middle of a glittering lobby, even when you had been given the opportunity for absolute transparency in the workshop he keeps hidden in his office, far away from the prying eyes of the world, his place of escape, from someone who had gone through betrayal far too many times, when you, Bucky old boy, had been dealt with _all_ the cards by Tony Stark, of all people, who understands what it truly means to be on opposing sides of someone you have affections for, you had kept your fucking eyes shut.

You had even placed your hands above your eyes to hold it shut.

The sun is scorching then, the burn going all the way under your skin when Tony had turned around and not spared you a second glance. And you had continued to burn, even when you had been away from him, when you had been miles away serving the world; until you had been submerged and had continued to sink in the Atlantic, when you had struggled to claw for the surface, dragging him with you.

You had opened your eyes so, so wide then only to realize that your world had gone dark.

There is no sun and there are no stars.

Not even a speck of light.

And in that moment, you realize your mistake. You understand regret over a choice that you had made and not something you had been forced into. There is no Hydra, there are no handlers, no electric currents, no coded word sequence that had made you close your eyes, had made you look away.

You see, that’s all you.

(I was scared!)

It had been _your_ choice.

Even when he had breathed and the flame had ignited, when the white glow of that sun had been rekindled, no matter how dulled or muted and _weak_ , you had taken comfort in the fact that there is hope still, that you’re not too late. And _I’ll tell you myself that I don’t want to be on opposing sides, that I want to be the guy you can trust no matter what, that I got you, always will. I’ll show you, I’ll show you this time!_

This time doesn’t come for wicked men, though.

And you are one of the wickedest.

You didn’t even get a _chance_.

Because the bigger picture is important and you had been convinced that he would be safe, that he’d be _kept_ safe.

Until you had him in your arms, soaking in crimson, when hope that reignited like a thousand suns before you flared so blindingly bright when he had said that he isn’t afraid to the world. And you too, had wanted to say that neither are you.

Not anymore.

Not with him.

But he had kept bleeding, until there had been no color on his cheekbones, until the corners of his lips go ashy and the gold flecks in his eyes dull out, until the barely formed syllables of your name had been his last breath, when his fingers had tried to grab for you, had tried, god he’s always fucking _trying_. Right to the goddamn end.

And now, as the days turns to weeks and weeks into months, as you come and go, come and go, and weed out the _scum_ of the earth, as you follow leads he had risked himself for, as you empty one magazine after the other, as you slit one throat after the other, as you _kill_ because for the first time in forever, the _bloodlust_ is _yours_ and _yours_ _alone_.

Because Tony remains asleep, cocooned somewhere far away from the world. You see him when you can, in the little isolated room, heavily guarded and impenetrable, sensors and a hundred fail safes around him. Bruce lingers close, never too far away, another measure of safety, and completely voluntary. Nothing would get past Bruce, not even a god of Asgard. And when you _can_ , you sit beside him and you read to him, softly and quietly, in your grainy and raspy voice that you do not use almost at all these days unless absolutely necessary; they had told you that it helps with patients in a coma. You start with the classics, and then work your way towards the newer ones.  You dabble on rock band memoirs, some of his favorite, some of it suggested by Rhodey, where one day, he had handed you a Barnes and Nobles bag. And then you go into fantasy, with things like wizards and sports played on broomsticks, on elves and dwarves and kings. At some point, you even read about vampires and werewolves.

There is never a response.

Tony never moves, never twitches, never nothing – there is only the soft rhythmic beeps of the heart monitor and the slow and undisturbed rise and fall of his lungs.

They had at least taken the respirator away.

They had at least taken _most_ of the IV lines away.

You remember reading somewhere that a man only needs three things to be truly happy; you think it’s a little out of context because it should have been: a man only needs three things to be truly _alive_.

Something to do.

Someone to love.

Something to hope for.

You have something to do; you are serving the world out of your own choice.

But the one person you want to love, the one thing you want to hope for, remains asleep and cut off from the rest of the world, frozen in what you hope with every fiber of your being are good memories, of happier times where there is no torture in the caverns of a sandy cave, where there are no traitors trying to rip his heart out, where there are no lies, no deceit, no monsters made of metal and failed coding, where no cities fall from the skies and no black holes dots said skies. You hope it’s filled with sweet memories of better days during Christmases and Thanksgivings, of celebrated successes and birthdays. You hope it’s filled with warmth and summer days where you know he had spent his childhood on the sandy shores of a beach somewhere with his parents, once upon a time.

You hope there is nothing but joy wherever he is.

And somewhere, deep down. you hope he sees you too. You hope that he understands that this time, you are not giving up. This time, you have both your eyes wide open. This time, you won’t willingly walk away. You will stand fearless the way he has, how he always has been, tough as iron because isn’t that what had caught your attention in the first place? His perseverance, how he keeps on _trying_ no matter how _terrified_ he is?

So this is you, yet again, A few months shy of a year later, still reading out loud to him with Thanksgiving just around the corner. This is you, sitting beside him with a box of donuts that you remember from years ago, eating the powdery sweetness in silence, much like the way he had. This is you, as you dust the sugar from the sides of your lips, feeling hope unravel, just like your mind, day by day, whether you are beside him, or miles away doing what you can to bring justice to those who had done _this_ to him, to so many others. This is you starting to slowly feel the color seep away from your world, where it dulls away like an old photograph.

“If you can hear me,” You say one day, as you hold what might as well have been his lifeless hand in between yours, “I want you to know that I’m not afraid. Not anymore.”

(You’re everything and I am starting to feel like I’m _nothing_ without you.)

\--

Bucky ducks and rolls into one of the storage facilities, dodging gunfire as he grits his teeth and leans against the wall of shipping container, the saltiness and dank atmosphere of White Rock filling his nostrils, leaving behind a lingering sweetness that is almost illusionary, typical of Canadian weather. Bucky feels it in the cool ground, can taste the almost-soon-to-come winter at the tip of his tongue as he reloads both his Sig-Sauers and breathes through the bullet bruises he can feel littering his sides, right leg and back.

He remains there, unmoving and catching his breath, as his teammates confirm clearing their designated areas through their network; the research facility had once belonged to the Canadian army and had been abandoned during the Second World War. And now, several decades later, it is being used as a hideout by the scum of the earth; Bucky counts through three before he leaps and puts a bullet each in three of his pursuers.

He rolls back up to his feet, going with the motion of his jump, boots cutting through the length of the storage facility until he reaches the other side that opens up to the runway. He leaves the door open and reaches up to chime in, that the storage facility is cleared.

Except the sound of displaced air reaches his ears and he’s turning around and aiming his gun at where the head of his pursuer should be. He sees the arm coming to block first before he feels it, body spinning as he uses the momentum of the sudden movement to bring his other gun forward, aiming it at the man’s head. The gun goes off and the bullet ricochets off the metal support beam of the facility. Bucky grits his teeth as he feels the blow of his pursuant elbow lands against the delicate bruise already blooming under his tactical gear, and quickly twists under the arm and plants his metal hand behind the man’s skull, fisting into dark hair before Bucky brings the barrel of his gun slamming down against the back of his neck. He hears the crack of bone first and barely gets a nanosecond to cant his head to the left when he hears a bullet whizzing past his ear, the bullet grazing against his cheek and cutting flesh. Bucky snaps back into an upright position, aims with calculation and confidence, and fires, watching another body drop to the ground from the railing above with a gurgling cry.

The silence that fills the space around him is only destroyed by the dizzying breathlessness of his last assailant and the sound of Bucky’s boots against the dusty cemented flooring. He cocks his gun and points it at the young man on the ground, a bullet hole in the middle of his chest, between his heart and left lung, blood already trickling down his mouth. Bucky thinks he’ll drown in his own blood first before the actual bullet wound.

The dying man – the dying _soldier_ – opens his mouth and the words starts rolling out, in a familiar sequence that still haunts Bucky’s mind on most nights. Bucky can feel his hand shake as he watches the words tumble past bloodied and stained lips:

Furnace. Benign. Rusted. One. Daybreak. Nine. Longing. Seventeen. Homecoming. Freight-car.

And for just a moment, Bucky had expected to feel the pull from the back of his mind, like clawed hands reaching forward and covering his eyes, yanking back the _Bucky_ of old and with it his conscience and ability to make decisions, robbing him of himself. And for just a heartbeat, Bucky thinks he _almost_ feels it.

Except he doesn’t quite hear the words, and those blinders don’t quite come over his eyes.

It is in those few moments, after Freight-car rolls past the soldier’s lips that Bucky makes his decision and like all those times for decades that had felt like centuries, Bucky allows the tension to leave his body, exhales a soft breath and let his hand fall limp against his sides, head dipping forward and shoulders hunching in a gesture of submission.

And in his assailant’s dying breath, Bucky receives his first assignment in what feels like a long time: to extract the names of _all_ the registered heroes and mutants.

Only a few people are aware of that list and one of them is the one that holds _all_ of Bucky’s hope.

Bucky watches as his assailant gurgles a wet ‘Hail Hydra’. The _rage_ that swallows him whole then is as cold as the alps, as biting as the winter storm and as sharp as razors, all consuming and all encompassing. Bucky doesn’t even think twice as the magazine of his gun is emptied against the skull of his assailant, until bone and flesh explodes and his faceless target lies in a mushy mess before him.  He reloads his gun again and fires it, empties it. And when he feels no satisfaction, no justice by the second round, he reloads it for the third time and empties that too, repeats it over and over, both his Sig-Sauers sweating bullets until the body before him looks nothing but a well-used kitchen sponge, pieces of flesh all over, the series of gunshots accompanied by the raw and gritting _noise_ ripping past Bucky’s throat, the anger gushing out like a horrible infection, just as loud as every single gunshot.

He can’t remember if he exhausts the fourth or the fifth or maybe even the sixth magazine.

He can barely think past the _rage_.

The sound and ringing in his ears only stops when he feels an arm around him, when he feels fingers _pry_ the guns out of him, and when he feels his back connect with the ground and he’s got Captain America pinning him down along with War Machine.

It takes a while to calm him down, a while for the anger to return to its slow boil; Bucky says nothing after that incident. Not even until the mission is over and they had cleared the entire facility and survivors gathered and detained for further questioning. He says nothing even during the ride home, sitting slumped against his chair in the quinjet, staring at his hands and almost hearing the mission tumble between the crimson lips of a dying man. His mind takes him places, and Bucky finds himself wondering what would happen if he didn’t have the chip in his head, if he didn’t make good progress with therapy, with trying to heal and work away from the programming. He tries to imagined how he’d get Tony to _talk_ and give up all those names.

“Hydra is after people who knows the identities of registered heroes.” Bucky says, addressing the quinjet and those gathered around him in their respective seats, voice scratchy and a little hoarse around the edges; his gaze focuses on Natasha. “You should probably look into that.”

“That the guy you turned into scrambled eggs?” Clint asks, looking over his shoulder from the pilot’s seat.

“He gave me a mission.” Bucky adds. “To extract those names for Hydra.”

“But you didn’t hear it.” Rhodey confirms, slow and measuring.

“No.” Bucky answers and looks at his hand. “If that guy knew, you’ll probably get the same from the rest after questioning.”

“I’ll look into it.” Natasha nods.

“Buck --” Steve starts, but Bucky cuts him off, holding his gaze.

“I want in. Whatever she finds, whatever _anyone_ finds, I want in.” Bucky says.

“It’s not gonna be easy.” Steve says and it doesn’t come out discouraging.

And Bucky understands.

Bucky knows that Hydra will never be stopped, that something like Hydra will always be around, lurking like the shadows, because they can cut off heads all year; they will only grow back. Months of fighting and stopping disasters, weeks and weeks of reigning in the bringers of constant destruction, of trying to control a rebellion that’s never going to stop, will turn into two and then into three – it’s their job as heroes.

An ideal, much like evil, will _always_ exist in the world. Bucky isn’t the naive soldier he had once been a long life time ago.

Hydra will never _truly_ die.

Bucky _knows_ that.

But goddamn if he will ever stop hunting down those bastards. Goddamn if he will ever stop putting bullet after bullet in between each fucking _head_ he can find, no matter how long it takes, for the rest of his goddamn life if he has to.

Goddamn if he’s going to _stop_.

“I don’t care.” Bucky answers, and _holds_ Steve’s gaze, looks at him and says his next few words that’s more of a promise than anything else. “I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them _all_.”

Steve doesn’t respond with words; no one does.

But Bucky sees the twitch of Steve’s lips and for a brief moment, the silent and ever hanging invisible tension between them dissolves.

For a moment, it seems like everything is going to be okay.

\--

Maria is sitting in the garden with her favorite tea set, nursing a cup of black tea under the shade of the magnolia tree, with Tony beside her staring at the stretch of green grass ahead of him as Maria’s soft voice reads off the book on her lap. Tony listens attentively, as he always does, watching as delicate and carefully manicured fingers turn the pages. From where he sits, he can see how some of the waves are coming lose from Maria’s hasty updo. She doesn’t wear makeup when she is at home, no jewelry decorating her neck and ears, save for her wedding band. Like this, Tony thinks she is the most beautiful woman on earth.

He tells her as much, as he always does when he had been young, because Howard had said so, a few times here and there when Tony had been in his presence. Howard had always referred to Maria as the most beautiful woman in the world, even during the times when their marriage had been at its lowest point. Tony remembers how Howard would pause in his impatient pacing during those nights he had waited at the bottom of the stairs, dressed to the nines and waiting for Maria to descend And join him. He would watch his father look up at his mother, watch as he gives _pause_ and something soft tugs at the corners of his eyes and soften the always busy, always calculating, always thinking twenty steps ahead handsome features, as Maria comes down the stairs.

“Who is the most beautiful woman on earth, Tony?” Howard would ask, and Tony would look up as his mother holds out her hand to Howard, who would take it and then pull her close to press a kiss at the back of her hand.

“Mama is!” Tony would say, beaming up at his mother, all teeth and dimples with joy and devotion painted all over his face.

Howard wouldn’t respond, but would smirk down at him with a nod of approval that Tony remembers very clearly - because they had been _that_ rare - how his chest would fill with pride at having pleased his father, how the warmth would spread from his heart and all the way up to his cheeks in a shy and happy flush, just as Maria rolls her eyes and press rouge tainted lips on his flushed cheek, leaving a mark. “You two.” She would say, even as her cheeks dusts with a delicate pink.

Howard would take her arm in his and only reach down to give Tony’s head a distracted pat before they head out for the night.

Howard had not been the perfect husband, nor the perfect father, he made a thousand poor decisions over the course of his life and while he had tried to do good, he, like any other man, had his shortcomings. Tony doesn’t forget the drinking, nor does he forget how his voice had cut through the silence of the mansion, how his temper had sometimes gotten the better of him and how sometimes, when he had been alone in his study, Tony would hear glass shatter and muffled frustrated curses just as his mother’s heels echoed down the far end of the hall and Jarvis’ hands would quickly usher him to the opposite side of the mansion.

Most of all, Tony remembers the silence, the way Howard, even as Tony had grown up up and had long matched his height, would say little to nothing, often looking distant and rarely seen without a glass of bourbon or scotch in his hand.

(Decades later, you understand that your father, during his last moments, had concerns for the world’s safety on his shoulders, had Hydra looming over his back and how he, just like you now, just wanted to keep everyone safe.)

Howard had been a lot of things.

But amidst all the gunk and all the muck and asshole qualities that even the business world had come to associate him with, Tony had never met a more devoted man to his passions, to his visions and being a futurist than that of Howard Stark. Even when the odds had been stacked against him, when the technology of his time had made him look like a deluded fool, Howard had faith, even in the impossible.

And no matter what Tony had tried to convince himself over the course of the bitter years and the ocean of regret, he could not find it in him to truly say that his father had not known how to love, that he had been frigidly cold and heartless, that he had forgotten the definition of love and family. Tony couldn’t because even in his dying moment, when he had slumped out of the car in an attempt to get help, or crawl around to pull Maria out, or whatever the fuck had gone through his mind, even when he hadn’t been able to _move_ , the first words out of his mouth had been, _help my wife_.

Howard had showed the world very little, had shown Tony even _less_.

But if there is one thing that Tony had learned from the mess that is Howard Stark, it is devotion.

(And you, Tony Stark, are truly Howard’s son. And like all sons with their fathers long buried, you miss him too.)

Tony closes his eyes, the memory fading to a distant hum, Maria’s voice fading to something heavier, something that doesn’t sound quite like her. He opens his eyes a sliver then, and hears the familiar English tenors. Pinocchio's story dissolves to something else, something that Tony remembers reading perhaps a decade ago because he had seen Pepper read it, had only read it because she had liked it.

Strange, how Jarvis would be reading that book, too.

So when Tony opens his eyes all the way, he doesn’t see a stretch of green or even the familiar walls of Stark manor, but the glow of white halogen lights. He doesn’t hear the chirp of the spring birds or the very distant hum of the city; he hears the steady rhythmic beep of what sounds like a heart monitor and beyond that, he hears the soft rustle of fabric and pages being turned. For a moment, Tony thinks he’s still dreaming when he watches Jarvis sit there, book propped open in his palm and voice smooth and ever calming.

Except it’s not Jarvis because Jarvis is deep in the ground with mom and dad.

“Before a dream is realized, the Soul of the World tests everything that was learned along the way. It does this not because it is evil, but so that we can, in addition to realizing our dreams, master the lessons we’ve learned as we’ve moved toward that dream. That’s the point at which most people give up. It’s the point at which, as we say in the language of the desert, one dies of thirst just when the palm trees have appeared on the horizon…”

Blue irises rise from its focus on the pages and Tony watches as something like relief and the telltale signs of a smile tug at Vision’s face, soft lines appearing around the corner of his eyes; there is a nostalgic ache somewhere deep in Tony’s heart as he thinks back to the old man who had looked at him this way so many times over the course of his life growing up, how even when it had not been his responsibility, Jarvis too, had found it in him to think that Tony had been worth his devotion and time.

“The Alchemist, Coelho,” Tony says, voice incredibly hoarse and thick from misuse.

Even to Tony’s ears, he sounds like utter shit.

“A suggestion by Miss Potts; I had asked if I could be provided a reading list and she had given me her favorites.” Vision slips a bookmark in between the pages and closes it, letting it rest on his lap. “I think it is becoming my favorite, too. Welcome back, Mister Stark.”

Tony tries to nod but ends up rolling his head away to look at the other side; he sees no window and opens his mouth to ask but Vision is beside him on the bed, carefully propping him up gently as he adjusts the incline. It takes a good while to get Tony upright, for the nausea to subside and for Tony to feel like his head isn’t about to roll off his shoulders and onto the ground. It takes even longer for him to get his throat to work around the baby-bird like sips of cool water, the feel of liquid sliding down his throat almost foreign.

And when Tony touches his face, he feels the untrimmed stubble along his jawline and his surely out of shape beard and goatee. He feels the uneven length of his hair, where it had grown past his ears and the dryness of his skin. But what he is most taken aback with is the fact that his hands, when he holds them up, no longer shakes.

His hands are steady.

“Am I in isolation?” Tony asks, reaching up to rub the sleep from his eyes and pushing his long hair back.

“You were.” Vision answers and stands to bring his chair closer to the bed. Vision places himself a good easy reach from Tony, not too far but not too close either. “You’ve been recently relocated to the Fridge. Sublevel ten.”

“Ah.” Tony gives a bit of a sniff and slowly takes another sip of water. “Am I dying?”

“Do you want to, Mister Stark?” Vision asks and Tony wonders if the slight tremble of his surname had been a trick of his hearing. “Is that why you did what you did, without informing the team -- no, let me rephrase that. Is that why you deemed it unimportant to not inform me of your plan? Were you really putting yourself out there to truly die?”

Tony looks up then and sees the most profound loss painted all over the synthetic muscles of Vision’s face. Somehow, seeing that, Tony sees himself all those years ago, when he had looked up in utter loss at Howard whenever the man had failed to tell him something important.

The apology tumbles out far too quick, and far too thickly coated with something Tony refuses to put a name to. “I’m sorry, buddy…”

“Do you trust me?” Vision asks, gaze dropping to his lap.

“I do.” Tony murmurs and finds that it is easy to admit this out loud.

“Then you must believe me when I say that you have been deeply missed.” Vision looks up then, a ghost of a pained smile tugging around the corners of his chin. “You’ve been in a coma for seven months. It’s December twenty-eight, Mister Stark.”

Tony doesn’t say anything immediately, trying to wrap his mind around that. He had spent the past seven months, now that he recalls, after being shot at but not killed in lobby bathroom of their leased building immersed in memories he doesn’t remember even thinking about in a long time.

“And the threat --”

“Is taken care of.” Vision answers, leaning forward just a little. “Mister Stark, you should know by now that you aren’t really alone. That there are people willing to fight _for_ you, and _with_ you. Everything you have done for the past several years have paid off. Numerous arrests have been made and security measures taken to ensure that what happened over the course of the summer doesn’t happen again. But I think, you and I both know, that threat in imminent. A world with more than eight billion people and only a handful of heroes and response teams -- well, I suppose in hindsight, we at least have response teams in place. Small steps.”

“World peace is an illusion.” Tony murmurs, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

“Yet, you will not stop trying.” Vision reaches over and presses the call button, the red light flashing. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for a breathless and a hurried Bruce to appear between the glass sliding doors, fingers braced against the metal frame, shock and surprise and relief painted all over his face. “And neither will we. After all, isn’t that our purpose?”

Tony doesn’t get to respond because he suddenly gets an armful of Bruce Banner and when he looks over the good doctor's shoulder, he sees the damndest thing in the world.

Vision smiling all teeth and open, and so very and incredibly _human_ , somehow takes Tony’s breath away.

\--

When Fury asks him what does he want to do some three hours later after Bruce had brought back his blood work and had cleared him to be free, Tony tells them that he wants to go home.

Home is quiet with Christmas decorations already up even when the manor had remained empty for several months and no one had been around to appreciate them. Friday, in all her hologram glory had the biggest smile on her face when Tony walks in, still a little unsteady on his feet but not unsteady enough that he needs a walking cane or a crutch. He is almost bowled over when Dummy comes zooming around the corner, his little wheels skidding to a sharp stop and arm waving up down, making excited mechanized noises.

“Daddy’s home.” Tony says, reaching forward and pressing a hand against Dummy’s arm; a few of Dummy’s lights start flashing on and off.

Tony leaves Bruce to settle and Vision to putter about and putting tea together and starts asking Friday to see who on their list can accommodate him for a full face and hair grooming service on very short notice. Tony is aware that none of the regulars would be able to make room for him, but it doesn’t hurt to try. Friday sounds most pleased when she manages to get an appointment with someone he is familiar with from Manhattan just as Tony stands in front of his closet, scrubbed clean from a long and hot shower, trying to adjust the t-shirt and jeans over his frame before giving up on the jeans all together and opting for drawstring sweats. Nothing he owns now, he notes without much surprise, would fit him anymore. Months of lying down and having nothing by intravenous nutrition had depleted him of most of his bulk. He is a lot thinner, easily sixty pounds lighter, his neck longer and his jawline and features sharper. The scraggly facial hair and uneven head of hair only makes the change look more prominent. He presses slender fingers against his flatter stomach, feeling the loss of muscle under the shirt. He _sighs_ a little, already trying to think of ways to make _this_ work; he doesn’t want to imagine what the public would cook up if he goes out like this, or what his PR team will have to handle.

(When you’re raised to always look put together, to look perfect, to look like you’re untouchable, something like this would be a cause for concern, huh?)

Even during the course of his illness, he had never looked this fragile. Tony thinks that the last time he had looked like this had been after the funeral, before he had decided to start putting some bulk on, to look bigger, stronger, to look taller and less of the scraggly kid who had just lost everything and more like the man fitting to be the face of Stark Industries.

He tells Friday to measure him, to put out an order and have a bit of everything delivered to the manor, just so that he had something to get around with. He trims some of the facial hair around his face, leaving enough for Dragana and her team to work with.

And what a face Dragana makes when she finally arrives at the manor, some hour later with three others, looking just like how Tony remembers her from years ago; Dragana is a petite eastern European woman with dark hair that she keeps in spiked pixie cut, who carries a stool around with her sis he can reach her client's heads when she is styling and always had a slim mint cigarette between nude painted lips. She is discreet, knows how to keep her mouth shut and doesnt give a damn about names and titles, save for making people look good and getting paid on time.

Under all the noir and sass, is also a war veteran and hands that can kill just as good as they can groom and style.

“Mister Stark, you look like cat walk model; I like it. This is new style for you?” She asks, in her thick Ukranian accent.

Tony gives her a hug and she places a tobacco scented kiss on his cheek in return. “I’m thinking of overhauling and getting a new facelift to match the engine and torque power. Something that’s… in.”

Dragana _laughs_ at his automobile references and it sounds like silver bells and unlike how she carries herself at all. “Free styling for me?”

Tony hesitates for just a second, before he smirks and shrugs and thinks, _fuck it_. “Go nuts without the funky hairdye.”

Tony spends the rest of the afternoon in Dragana’s company in one of the drawing rooms of the manor. Vision comes in at some point to bring coffee, and Bruce hadn’t dared to make a sound, opting to stay away all together. It is a good few hours later that Tony stretches and looks at his new reflection, after several treatments, hair tinting, manicure and pedicure and an express facial given the lack of spa equipment. The beard and goatee remains the same, except Dragana had elongated the thin beard line along his jawline. Dragana had given him the classy quiff and a mid-fade, something familiar and something he is more used to. It is the top of his head that changes his entire face. It is both messy and sleek, with a shaved side parting that accentuates the sleekness of the cut and adds a lot of edge and silhouette. If he wants, he can pull off a slicked-back and a comb-over, can maybe maneuver it to some sort of faux-mohawk and if it grows long enough, Tony thinks a top-knot can even be managed. Tony doesn’t recall ever going this far and he wants to say it isn’t quite him _now_ and maybe would have been something he’d be willing to wear in his twenties.

But he doesn't quite look like a day over thirty-five because of Extremis. The new look makes him look even younger, maybe not a day over thirty.

He reaches up and purposely dishevels the top, watches how it changes the look all together once more; the grin that splits Tony’s face is wide.

This is the reason why he can always count on Dragana when he is in a pinch; Dragana gives him _options_.

“Very sexy, Mister Stark.” Dragana says, with an equally wide grin, looking quite pleased with herself. “You should pose for magazine.”

Tony takes a look at his reflection again as the grin slowly tapers to a smirk.

_I got this; I can work with this._

\--

One would think that being in a coma for months would mean that the pent up energy would keep one awake. But Tony sleeps like a starved man all the way till New Years, waking up only to take measures sips of Gatorade or whatever tea Bruce is having. After the first night back and Tony had attempted to consume solid food, he had spent the rest of the night emptying his guts and feeling miserable.

Bruce had warned him, but Tony had used the whole run before you can walk thing.

Extremis had reminded Tony within the first twenty-fours yet _again_ that despite being a miracle worker and saving his life, it can’t fix _everything._

Pepper comes by the mansion with Happy the next day and Tony fights tooth and nail to keep a somewhat straight face when he realizes how his actions had clearly taken its toll on the poor woman. He does not step away from Pepper when her embrace gets too tight, does not stop her from pressing a kiss to his temple and does not hold it against her when she cries and _cries_ against his shoulder. He holds her under the glow of the ten foot tree and the afternoon sun permeating through the glass ceiling, holds her as she tells him repeatedly that he is a fool, that for a moment she had thought he’d never wake up again, that he should never scare her like that again.

Tony cannot make promises, but he smiles at her anyway and dries her tears, kisses her forehead and tells her that Daddy’s back in business.

Pepper knows and _understands_ and while it isn’t exactly the most appropriate answer, she laughs a little wetly and smiles anyway.

Happy outright _bawls_ , in loud snivelling noises that are earnest and real and does nothing to abate the twisting knots in Tony’s stomach.

Tony barely gets out of this particular reunification intact, barely able to maintain a straight face through it all.

Tony isn’t even sure how to handle telling Rhodey.

He had wanted to reach out to the others himself, to be in control of how he comes out to the world, and not be overwhelmed by everyone. SHIELD had given him with the privacy he had wanted for the first few days, Phil ensuring that his tracks are covered and that people didn’t whisper that he had left the Fridge. And in a sordid attempt to ground himself, Tony spends the remaining days and New Years Eve re-orienting himself with Stark Industries progress. When he had been done with that, he had dared to venture into reading into the mess he had left behind after _that_ speech, and remembers feeling overwhelmed at just how much work and dedication SHIELD and the Taskforce had invested in to ensure some form of justice.

Then he sees Steve’s team’s mission reports.

And promptly shuts it all down immediately the moment he sees how many times the Winter Soldier had been marked with a red flag, how Steve himself had recommended pscyh-evaluations and how at some point, Bucky had to be benched even though he had been fit to be in active duty.

Tony knows he can dig further, but makes a choice _not_ to.

Since returning to the manor, he had refrained from using Extremis opting to utilize Friday and his operating systems to handle the bulk of the workload, if only because he isn’t sure if he is ready to handle the stress that comes with it just yet. He can barely digest solid food as it is and still feels tired most of the time – it can wait.

The world can wait just a little longer.

Tony is leaning against the island, trying to rub sleep off from his eyes and taking a sip of his coffee, when Vision carefully places warm toast in front of him and stands there as still as a statue.

Tony is halfway through the first plain and very bland piece of toast when Vision speaks.

“I was thinking, Mister Stark, if you would like to accompany me to Colonel Rhodes’ residence.” Tony doesn’t answer and instead blinks. It is the first weekend after the new year and Tony had only been home a little over a week.

“Does he know?” Tony asks, carefully placing the crust of his toast back on the plate.

“No. Agent Coulson has assured me that all inquiries have been fielded. I believe doctor Banner has done the same – ah, am I right, doctor?” Vision asks, just as Bruce walks into the kitchen with the newspaper, and looks just a touch startled.

“Uhmm… yeah? Wait, what am I agreeing to, here?” Bruce asks, looking between the two of them.

Tony waves a dismissing gesture and pats the chair beside him.

“I was informing Mister Stark that perhaps it would be a good idea to visit Colonel Rhodes’ residence.” Vision supplies.

“Oh, oh right. They’re both home together for a change, aren’t they? I wasn’t called in so I’m guessing the alien invasion was taken care of?”

Tony _blinks_ ; apparently, he had missed _that_. “Alien?”

“Nothing earth shattering, I assure you. But there seemed to have been a portal opening that invited a hostile race to hover over Earth’s exosphere. I believe it had happened just after Christmas morning?”

“Yeah.” Bruce takes a sip of coffee. “It didn’t get a chance to reach earth; they were drawn outwards and whatever debris that may have resulted from the battle had disintegrated in the atmosphere upon entry before it can reach land or water. I heard they had kept it under wraps.”

“The Taskforce and the Accords felt that it is better to not add panic to the public when it is still recovering from the multiple assaults and terrorist attacks. I believe Colonel Rhodes and Colonel Danvers were part of the post-battle clean up.”

Tony blinks _again_ just a touch gobsmacked. “Good call?” Bruce hums and Vision carefully pours another cup of coffee. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but Tony finds himself shifting just a little in his seat. “Is everyone going to be there?”

Vision pauses and looks up. “I cannot tell. But I am lead to believe that Colonel Rhodes may have extended invitations to the others; I am unsure if Captain Rogers is back from his current assignment, if he had taken the entire team or not. I do know that Mister Lang had taken a short leave of absence to spend time with his family in San Francisco. He, I can be sure, will not be present.”

Tony doesn’t say anything and looks at his coffee for a while before shrugging a slender shoulder, with a bit of a half-smile that betrays just a _touch_ of his anxiety. “Rhodey doesn’t like surprises. That ought to be fun. I’m napping throughout the flight. And the drive after!”

Vision takes it in stride and smiles in that small and private manner that never fails to surprise Tony, as he slides a plate of toast over to Bruce, who starts to chuckle. “Very good, sir.”

\--

Rhodey had made a quick run to the store to get more soda and beer as soon as the family and fellow colleagues and some retired veterans had left after lunch. He isn’t expecting anyone to come given the circumstances of their current posts or assignments, but he had sent the shout out all the same.

Natasha and Clint are the first and only ones to arrive, sometime during the afternoon with a box of Blackout cake and Choux à la crème in Natasha’s grip and a stack of presents in Clint’s arms. They had volunteered to fire up the barbeque once more and had been happily catching up in the backyard with Carol, the sun already casting an orange glow over the canopy of trees hanging over their backyard. Rhodey had not been expecting anyone else to show up after Natasha had confirmed that Steve, Bucky and Sam are expected to arrive later that evening, so when the doorbell rings and he calls out a hasty I’ll-get-it out the backdoor, drying his hands with a dishtowel, and picking up two glasses from the hallway that had been left by their guests, he had _not_ expected to come face to face with Vision.

“Vee!” He says and doesn’t even think twice in pulling the door wide open and making his way down the hall towards the kitchen, expecting Vision to follow. “Come on in, we’re out back!”

“Colonel Rhodes, thank you for the invitation.” Visions says and steps into the threshold.

“You make yourself right at home and…” Rhodey says, shifting his grip on the two glasses he had in his hands, the words slowly dying from his lips when he catches sight of two figures looming behind Vision’s back.

“Ah, I hope you don’t mind Colonel Rhodes, but I’ve brought some friends that I think you may be pleased to see.” Vision says and carefully steps aside as the stranger that had been looming behind steps in.

Rhodey feels his mouth go a little dry when Bruce steps into the threshold with a bit a lopsided smile and a sheepish nod of his head, a soft greeting rolling past his lips as he tugs the scarf from around his neck free. Rhodey isn’t sure _why_ Bruce is even present with Vision because Bruce had volunteered to remain behind in the Fridge with Tony, both as a physician and as security. Bruce had been more than happy to be excluded from the Hydra hunts and other missions for the time being; seeing him in his house, with the glow of the still flashing Christmas lights dancing over his coat and face makes Rhodey tilt his head to the other person stepping into the house and tugging the hood of his hoodie off.

The glass in his hands slips and shatters all over the polished wooden floors, as whatever dots in his mind join together and the question that Rhodey had been trying to phrase shows all over his face.

“Must you be _so_ dramatic, cuddle-bear?” Tony asks, looking incredibly small but standing up right, with his eyes wide open.

Tony who is looking awkward and suddenly so unsure of what to _do_ with himself, just like all those years ago when Rhodey had brought him home one day to meet his family for Christmas. Tony, who stands there, in non-descript Chucks and jeans and a band t-shirt, looking not quite like the million bucks he always is, with a stuffed unicorn held under his arm and throat bobbing in a way that betrayed his nervousness.

When he had no reason to be nervous at all.

The _laugh_ that leaves Rhodey’s mouth is _loud_ which tapers off to some sort of noise he had not known he had been capable of making, so completely caught off guard. Rhodey remembers being in the Fridge, just a little over a week ago and reading out a portion of Motley Crue’s The Dirt to a man who might as well have been dead. He had just made a call two nights ago to Phil, asking if there had been any sort of changes, any sort of fluctuation in _any_ of the readings, only to receive the same answer as he always have been getting for the past seven months.

The laugh tapers off to relief and grief all rolling into one, and Rhodey finds himself standing in the middle of the hallway, a fist coming to rest on his hip and teeth biting into flesh of his palm that had come to cover his mouth in an attempt to pull himself together.

“You son of a bitch.” Rhodey _chokes_ out, salt gathering around the corners of his eyes because damnit, _goddamnit_.

“Yeah, well… I try.” Tony murmurs and looks at his feet.

It is the small shrug that makes Rhodey _laugh_ again, loud and booming and cutting through the house as he crosses the distance between them and wraps his arms around the man that will never cease to surprise him. He buries his face in the far too slender shoulder, wraps his arms around the frame that is far too small than what he remembers, and shuts his eyes and allows himself a moment of weakness to relish on the relief at finally having Tony upright and around, alive and breathing and _talking_.

“Don’t you ever – don’t you _ever_ do that again.” Rhodey says and pulls back to grip Tony’s face in his palms, feeling the more prominent cheekbones and the warmth – god, the _warmth_ of Tony’s cheeks when he had been almost cold for the longest time - and trying-so-hard-to-keep-it-together flush against his palms. “Never again, Tony Stark or I shoot you my goddamn self!”

“Promises, promises~” Tony answers instead, shakily and a little hoarsely which only makes Rhodey grin from ear to ear.

It is Carol who calls in from the kitchen, Natasha in tow. It is also Carol who _screams_ and sets off Liana into a startled crying fit. It is also Carol who all but dumps the crying child in Tony’s arms, embracing him and kissing his cheek and asking Liana to hush, her uncle is finally here.

Rhodey stands there, watching as Tony all but awkwardly try to handle the disaster he’s been handed with, watches how the emotions on his face dance when Natasha comes in and embraces him too, and later, Clint. He stands there and watches as Tony holds the child against his hip, how he calls his daughter baby-girl and attempts to convince her that she should grow up to be a unicorn, because unicorns are great and majestic and shots rainbows which by extension is amazing, a poor attempt to justify his choice of a gift because Rhodey is sure that Tony must have agonized on what to get, or likely picked up the first thing that he must have seen.

He watches as Tony tries to assimilate into the new environment, at first feeling like he’s out of his element before eventually easing into it, betraying little to almost nothing of his discomfort. Rhodey watches with a bit of a heavy heart, as Tony tries to eat dinner like the rest of them, but only succeeds with very little before he excuses himself and feels a little sick. He watches with an even heavier heart, long after Liana had been put to bed and Carol had excused herself for the night, how while sharing a glass of wine  and hard liquor by the fireplace, Tony had fallen asleep on the lazy-boy without realizing himself, his glass of scotch on the rocks untouched and the ice long melted.

Rhodey sees the vulnerability of a man with all his armor stripped down, baring the small and shattered thing under all that iron. He sees exhaustion and the silent desperation to always do better, to be better, to be stronger, to fixfixfix and protectprotectprotect. Rhodey had to remind himself that Tony is simply asleep in his living room and that he’d wake in a few hours. He had to remind himself that the days of unmoving sleep and silence is past them all, that come the morning, it’ll be a new day.

Rhodey tells himself all that, convinces himself to go to bed, even after Liana wakes up in the middle of the night and he rocks her back to sleep.

But he doesn’t go to bed.

Instead, he heads back down the living room, his daughter in his arms and finds a spot on the couch and gets comfortable. He keeps his eyes on Tony and his breathing, keeps watching him as Liana falls back asleep against him. And when the sun rises over the horizon, when he sees Tony shift in his sleep, Rhodey finally gives in and catches the last few hours of shut eye.

He wants to believe it’s going to be okay.

Experience, however, had taught him otherwise.

\--

Tony wakes up to the smell of bacon, eggs, pancakes and freshly brewed coffee. He also wakes up to the sound of a child gurgling and when he cracks his eyes open, he finds the bluest eyes and mop of brown curls standing in all directions looking at him and waving the stuffed unicorn he had brought in. Rhodey is fast asleep on the couch, mouth open and snoring, completely dead to the world, looking like he had just passed out after hours of partying.

Liana gurgles and starts waving again when they make eye contact, and Tony sits up a little straighter, drawing his legs closer to himself and making the hushing gesture to keep the kid from making anymore noise that may startle Rhodey awake.

And like all children, Tony isn’t surprised that Liana chooses _not_ to listen and instead brings a small hand coming down sharply against her father’s cheek.

Tony isn’t even sure how Rhodey doesn’t _jump_ at that, and instead makes a snorting noise and continues to sleep, the unfeeling bastard.

There are sounds coming from the kitchen and Tony can hear Carol conversing on the phone, some of the names sounding familiar. Tony knows that the best way to avoid a goddamn disaster – like the kid tumbling down and bouncing on the floor should Rhodey decide to _startle_ awake – is to go get the mother of said child and be done with it. So Tony carefully moves to get up, except he doesn’t get very far because Liana’s face starts to contort and flush and she looks like she’s about to explode and make very loud wailing noises.

So Tony sits his ass back down on the chair and watches as Liana’s face irons out from her about-to-cry face. A minute goes by followed by another, as Liana continues to slap the shit out of Rhodey’s face before Tony decides to try again, his upper and lower back already stiff because he does _not_ want to be the guy who made the baby cry. He really doesn’t want that _title_. But as soon as he goes over one arm rest on the lazy boy, Liana’s face just starts to crumple and Tony finds himself making desperate gesture for her to be quiet, holding up hands to pacify her and _Jesus Christ, Rhodey has the devil’s child because fuck that’s not normal!_

And much to Tony’s mounting horror and slight disgust, he watches as Liana shoves two tiny fingers up Rhodey’s nose. He watches with equal parts amusement and equal parts confusion how the gesture doesn’t even rouse Rhodey _at all_.

“Oh pshhhh, don’t look so surprised. He’s so used to it. Trust me, at some point, the exhaustion wins and whatever _she_ does doesn’t even matter. You sleep through it.” Carol suddenly says as she walks past Tony, her voice initially startling him, and gives Rhodey a good shake on the shoulder, just as she plucks the child off him and Liana’s fingers come free off Rhodey’s nose with dare Tony thinks, a barely audible pop.

Rhodey is shooting up from the couch asking where the fire is at is all Tony is able to take before he dissolves into peels of breathless laughter when Rhodey reaches up to rub his slightly sore nose.

“See?” Carol says and bounces Liana in her arms.

“Stop laughing, you jerk. It's not that funny.” Rhodey says, pinching his nose.

Tony doesn’t.

(And if you had any ounce of regret, no matter how miniscule, of fighting tooth and nail and taking Rhodey’s place, in all the drama and politics you had to face and all the promises you had to live up to when you had made sure that Rhodey would get time off to be with Carol during the most crucial time of her pregnancy and after being attacked, you think this very moment, makes it all worth it.)

TBC

  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so many more plans, so many more action sequences. But those were scrapped in favor of something simpler and shorter because if I had gone with what I had planend ORIGINALLY, my goodness, this fic _will never bloody end._ I am happy to announce that we are almost kinda' ending. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Also happy to announce that I am planning another separate series all together! WOO! I don't think i ever wanna stop writing Tony @_@


	9. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own BETA. I am sure that despite 100 reads, I have missed a lot of DUH-SO-OBVIOUS typos. SHORTER CHAPTER THAN USUAL! Also, I hate writing action sequence. God, it's terrible and hard and it sucks!

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”   
― [ **Victor Hugo**](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13661.Victor_Hugo), [ **Les Misérables**](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3208463)

 

“You can’t bench me; again.” Bucky says, voice tight just as much as the tension lining his entire body, had been lining his body since the incident over the Atlantic.

“After this assignment, yes I can.” Steve says, adjusting the straps on his thigh and checking his pistols.

“ _Why_?” Bucky asks, voice as rigid as a board, gritting around each following syllable. “I’ve gone through all the evals, I’ve passed them. I haven’t gone _off_ at all since White Rock. I allowed the benching _then_ because that had been the correct decision. What’s your reason for benching me _now_?”

“The fact that you’re even asking is reason enough, Buck.”

“Oh? Enlighten me, _Stevie_ , because I don’t have the damndest clue what’s going through that head of yours.”

“Funny; I share the same sentiment.”  Steve mutters darkly, tugging his gloves on a little too sharply.

Bucky can feel his temper rattle in its cage at the lack of a justified response, can feel it course through his veins as he watches Steve not meet his gaze and keep more to himself as he zips his suit up the rest of the way and picks up his utility belt. Bucky knows he is wound tight and to the limit, ready to _snap_ , knows that he’s running on fumes at this point, taking assignments back to back, training during hours of recovery because he can’t stay put. He can’t sit still without his mind exploding into a hundred possible plans on how to achieve the mission he had received in White Rock. Against his own control, he would cook up routes of possible extraction, mentally planned surveillance points and timings, possible exit and disposing strategies. He thinks of how - had he not had his own mind - he would have just walked up to Tony and ask for the names. And if Tony doesn’t cooperate, he’d engage and resort to more forceful methos; that is what Hydra had trained him to do, that is what he had done for _decades_. Bucky knows he can keep up toe to toe with Tony’s quicker reflexes, because Extremis may give him the edge, but Bucky had the experience under his belt. Bucky knows that in a fist fight without the armor, Tony wouldn’t even last a minute against him, and most certainly not the Soldier.

(He wouldn’t call on the armor either; having that knowledge, somehow, doesn’t make you feel better when you realize it would just shorten the completion time of your mission and give you an added advantage.)

Bucky thinks of how he’d put a bullet between those brown eyes.

(You can still hear how loud your screams had been when you watch him stare at you lifelessly when you pull the trigger; it’s all you dream about since White Rock.)

Bucky doesn’t form a response and instead hears his jaw grind together. He tears his gaze off Steve and picks up his duffel bag, preparing to exit the armory of the Compound and just rendezvous at the runway. “You’re the _Captain_.”

“And your friend!” Steve _snaps_ , the cutting edge of his voice punctuated when he all but drops his shield back on the bench with an audible and echoing clang.

“You’re letting sentiment cloud your vision, Steve.” Bucky throws over his shoulder as he reaches to press the unlock key sequence on the keypad, only to have it stopped when Steve all but smashes his palm against it.

There is rage too, in Steve’s eyes, a thunder storm of blue and green, with his pupils blown wide open.

“And you’re _not_?” Steve asks, mockingly incredulous, voice reaching new levels of pitch and volume, gritty and equally rough around the edges. “Have you honest to god, _seen_ yourself? Do you even realize that this right here, this _conversation_ right now is the most you’ve said to _anyone?_ Tblisi was one thing when you had ‘ _miscalculated’_ your ability to handle your targets. You cannot _tell me_ that it had been hindsight in Zamość, Ljubljana, Klaipeda and Bratislava _too_. This isn’t even about White Rock anymore; we are _way_ past _that_. You may have fooled the council, but I draw the line _somewhere!_ I am all up for the Hydra Witch Hunt, hell I want to be part of the goddamn Hydra Witch Hunt, but I’m not going to sit here and turn a goddamn blind eye to your _recklessness._ When was the last time you had more than twelve hours to yourself that doesn’t include training or briefing? Have you even completely recovered from your knife wounds from three days ago? _A goddamn_ knife wound! _”_  Bucky doesn’t answer and he watches as the rage deflates to concern, to fear, to something that isn’t remotely suited to be all over Steve’s face. “Jesus Christ, Buck, talk to me – just give me _something_ for fuck’s sake.”

The decision, Bucky knows, had not been easy to make.

Bucky _knows_ this because he _knows_ Steve.

But Bucky doesn’t look away from the hand covering the keypad, he doesn’t dare meet Steve’s gaze because he doesn’t want to engage, he doesn’t want to let the temper reign free no matter how tempted he is to exchange blows in that very moment and just allow the tension to snap free. The fact that he _wants_ to exchange words, to _lash out_ is a sign enough that Bucky really needs to take a long walk and get his head straight.

It isn’t Steve’s fault.

It’s no one’s fault.

“Out of the way, Steve.” Bucky says, metal finger clenching around the duffel handle, words punctuated with a slow and measured exhale.

“Or you’ll _what_?” Steve asks and when Bucky turns then, when Steve catches a glimpse of the storm waiting to break free.

“I’ll _nothing_.” Bucky answers, turning to meet that raging storm with his own, jaw tight and metal fist even tighter, a slight twinge of metal filling the space between them. “You’re the Captain.”

Steve straightens then as his jaw locks and the words that leaves him, Bucky knows, is calculated and carefully measured, aimed at the bullseye. “ _Tony_ would have done the same.”

The tactic _works_ and some part of Steve must have known that because Steve isn’t the kind to mince words or aim a little too low below the belt.

Not over things like this.

Bucky doesn’t even blink when his fist connects solidly with the side of Steve’s jaw with a satisfying crack.

And Steve goes down with it, gets on one knee as he brings a hand up to his jaw, a crack resonating through the room, when he gasps and pushes his dislocated jaw back into place, carefully stands up, blinking away the effects of the blow that he could have easily dodged, but _didn’t_. Bucky doesn’t hear what Steve says after, even when he sees Tony’s name form and roll from Steve’s lips. The sheer rage that engulfs him then sounds like an ever ringing siren, distant and high pitched, resonating in the depths of his ear canal and bouncing around the walls of his skull.

Bucky doesn’t recognize himself as one line of tension snaps after the other as he grabs Steve by the collar of his tactical gear and _slams_ him against the wall, cutting off whatever garble is rolling off his tongue, watching as the rage bubbles over Steve’s head too when Bucky _growls_ :

“Leave _him_ out of this.”

This is the point where Steve hits back and doesn’t pull his punches.

Bucky feels his back connect with the wall too, where he dodges when a crimson gloved fist comes forward and dents the metal walls of the armory, some of the bolts coming free. Bucky uses the momentum of his dodge to aim a roundhouse, only to be blocked as Steve ducks and aims a fist against his abdomen, catching the still delicate bruise and missing his freshly healed knife wound, sending Bucky against the wall, the metal arm putting another dent on the wall.

Steve goes after him, raining blow after blow, one front jack and then a hook. Bucky retaliates in kind, blocking and blinking away stars when he feels the blow connect where they are supposed to connect and the pressure builds up somewhere in his nose, crimson gushing down his face. They tear down shelves in the wake of their frustrations and rage, knocking down stacked artillery and scattering copper bullets and unloaded firearms all over the floor.

The elbow strike Bucky aims connects with Steve’s chest, sending him a few feet back into the armory and forcing him down on a knee as he _gasps_ and tries to catch his breath, tries to breathe through the _blow_ , spitting out a spray of blood that Bucky mimics in response, stalking over to where Steve is and brushing the back of his arm across his face to wipe the dripping mess off his nose.

“You’re not the only one who feels lost. You’re not the only one who _cares_.” Steve says, as he stands and blocks the oncoming front kick, yanking Bucky over to him until they’re chest to chest and throwing him over. Bucky goes down with it, back connecting with the wooden bench that snaps, splinters flying in all direction as Steve _holds_ him _down_ and keeps him down, forearm across his chest and throat with calculated pressure, one knee against his hip, all two-hundred-twenty-pounds of muscle keeping him in place. “ _We love him too_!”

Maybe it is the trick of the light, or maybe it is exhaustion, Bucky isn’t sure.

He can’t comprehend what he sees looming above him, he can’t even begin to understand it because the ‘we’ may be true. But the ‘ _we’_ here, in this very moment, the way it had tumbled past Steve’s lips sounds like an ‘ _I’_.

(How do you even answer that?)

The fight leaves Bucky, all his tense chords snapped and free, broken and lax like his limbs that slowly go limp under the pinned hold. He stares at the ceiling lights, white and bright and allows himself to go with the motions of Steve picking him off the floor until they’re both standing there, in the middle of the trashed armory, wits, tempers and what is left of their clarity lying in a heap all around, just like the fallen weapons.

“I understand your decision.” Bucky just says, and it’s softer this time, _defeated_ and accepting.

And when Steve presses his hands against his shoulders, when those hands come up to the back of his head in that familiar camaraderie gesture that Bucky remembers from almost a lifetime ago, he closes his eyes.

“Look at me, Buck…” Steve says, and Bucky doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to see what he knows he’ll see: regret, pain, a hundred suppressed emotions, the result of his selfishness when wicked men like him don’t deserve the right to be selfish. But he opens his eyes anyway, meets Steve’s gaze and sees that heartbreaking smile that Steve is so good at keeping under wraps. He watches how it makes him look more his age, an old man who had been forced to move forward in time far too quickly for him to comprehend. An old man who understands defeat.

(You wonder, if this is the face he had worn, all those years ago when he makes the decision to put that jet into the water, when he had said goodbye to his first love.)

“I get it, Buck.” Steve says, and gives Bucky a gentle shake. “I get it… let me help _you_.”

Bucky shakes his head then and takes a step back bring fingers up to his nose and pinching it briefly, an attempt to focus on something else other than the sudden vast of an empty space he feels in his chest. How does one say, _how can you? How do you make the regret and being too slow go away? How do you move past it when you yourself hadn’t been able to? You had gone and visited Peggy as much as you had been able to, when she looked at you and forgot the time in between, the time you had or when she only remembered how you had sacrificed yourself for the good of the nation. How can **you** help **me** when you couldn’t even help **yourself**?_

The sleeve of his shirt comes up, brushing off the slowing flow of blood, as Bucky gives a bit of sniff and shakes his head again.

“I’m good.” He says _lies_ and he hears the sigh that leaves Steve, disappointed and helpless. “Let’s just go and get this over and done with.” When Bucky looks up, he sees Steve looking at his hands, watches how the disappointed lines irons out to something else that Bucky recognizes because he’s seen that look several times when he looks at the mirror. “You can’t help me, Steve. This one is on me…”

“I still wanna try.” Steve says, quiet and withdrawn but doesn’t say anymore as he returns back to where his things are and picks up his shield.

Bucky doesn’t say more, even when a part of him wants to say something, wants to give something back, just like Steve had asked. Because he does understand Steve’s decision, and he understands where Steve’s coming from. Bucky knows he’s slipping, knows he’s at the tipping edge between irrational fear and paranoia _and_ rationality; the only thing that’s keeping him hinged and in line is the fact that he’s got an entire team covering him for all his fuck ups, all his miscalculations and all his shortcomings. He had a team of competent heroes and trained assassins who know _better_ than to _ask_ , who understands what his silence means, who understands loss and regret, just as much as he does. Bucky knows he’s hanging by a thread and that his paranoia is justified.

But he also knows that the struggle to open up is a fight that comes from within. He also knows that everything that’s pointing Steve towards the decision to bench him stems from that fight within, the constant day by day struggle to silence the resonating voices of his victims that is the byproduct of his guilt.

Hydra’s mark is deep; Hydra never truly goes away. They’re there, lurking in the corners, like an itch you can’t scratch.

Bucky _knows_ this is something he’ll always carry for the rest of his days.

(But you’re not alone anymore; you’ve got Steve _and_ many others.)

They leave the mess in the armory behind, walking past the security who keeps their head down and call maintenance as they walk past. They cross the corridors with bruises and blood smattering their healing faces, walking like they had not just gone against each other in a fist fight, like they hadn’t just trashed the armory while suiting up for an emergency call. They walk like things between them are okay, heading for the quinjet parked out on the deck of the helicarrier they had stopped on to refuel. They both pretend not to see the concerned look on Sam’s face.

\--

Getting a call from Stephen Strange is something Steve is never going to get used to.

Over the course of the months that had followed after the major mystery  disappearances and time disturbance over the Asian belt, Strange hadn’t completely disappeared on them. Steve can count a few instances in one hand where Strange had reached out and warned them about open portals that involve dimensional crossing and imbalance. The last alien attack warning had come from him; that had been the ample warning the Taskforce needed to contain and keep the fight in space, successfully keeping it mostly hushed form the public.

So when Strange calls _again_ and tells them there is a ‘minor crisis’ and that he needs _time_ to undo the portal opening, Steve feels the exhaustion seep deep into his bones, just as he confirms an affirmative and relays the message through the appropriate channels..

Natasha’s affirmative isn’t far behind.

Neither is Rhodey’s confirmation.

The portal that had suddenly appeared right over DC’s skyline, right above the Potomac River is large and a spectrum of neon lights amidst a sea of endless black. The Taskforce confirms within minutes that emergency measures are underway and that evacuations within a thirty mile radius from open portal had begun.

“Out of the pot and into the frying pan, huh?” Sam says in between confirming their presence and on standby to engage hostile presence.

“Just another regular day.” Steve says, shrugging a little.

“Well, at least it isn’t boring.” Sam murmurs. “Hey, uh, how’s the face?”

Steve resists the urge to bring a hand up to what is now a very ugly bruise decorating his cheek. The swelling had gone down a lot within the past five hours; Steve knows that it will be gone in the next few. He looks over his shoulder to where Bucky is slumped against the seat, face equally swollen, a thawed ice pack on his lap and face equally bruised, fast asleep from exhaustion.

“I’ll live.” Steve says, patting Sam’s shoulder.

Sam opens his mouth to respond, to say something that Steve knows will have nothing to do with the color decorating his face but the reason behind it. What comes out instead is a dry and humorless, “Well shit, that doesn’t look friendly.”

Lightning starts to crack around the edges of the open portal and within seconds, clouds starts to roll down, spreading and dividing. Except they aren’t really clouds but large beastly like creatures that that resembled locusts with the gnarling face of a gargoyle. They fly down in an incredibly large swarm, darkening the morning sky and casting a shadow all over the Petomac River, spreading out like ripples over civilian areas.

Their authorization to engage comes the moment the creatures attack, tearing through public property. The quinjet dips momentarily, Steve bracing himself against the pilot’s seat as Sam veers the jet towards the Ronald Reagan National Airport, confirming their presence, lighting up the sky to take down as many of them as he can.

Steve doesn’t wait a second longer and shakes Bucky awake, watching him startle under the hold Steve had on his shoulder, eyes wild and wide open.

“We’re taking the ground. Sam is covering the skies. Get ready.” Steve says.

Bucky doesn’t need to be told twice. He doesn’t even _ask_ just _what_ they’re even up against.

Sam drops them off on the tarmac, and Steve hits the ground running, pulling his shield and throwing it in front of him, easily cleaving a handful of the five foot tall locust-gargoyle creature in front of him and clearing a path. They cut through easily, like crushing a bug and Steve finds himself grateful that they are easy to take down. He doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that Bucky had his six. He doesn’t even need to worry about Bucky’s six because Sam had left Red Wing with them, as he flies the quinjet closer to the river, opening fire and trying to break the formation of the swarm.

The creatures may come apart easily, but they are quick and primarily use their jaws and fangs to tear their targets apart. They do not have weapons other than the bolus of sticky discharge they spit out that had and acid like properties melted anything organic. Steve finds out the hard way when he dodges the gray discharge feels a bit of the splatter catch on his cheek, feels the _burn_ against his skin that makes him grits his teeth.

“Clint here!” Clint patches through the communication line. “Watch out for the saliva! They’ll melt your face.”

Steve almost says, _no shit_ , except he turns to find Bucky flying across the tarmac, hitting the ground and rolling before he rights himself back up, metal arm digging into the ground and sending sparks, before he charges himself forward, grabbing one of the creatures by the leg and cleanly ripping it off as he plants fist after fist into their hard shells. Steve doesn’t even think when he throws his shield to decapitate one of the creatures who had its mouth wide open and ready to spit a mouthful of acid at Bucky.

The creature drops and when the shield swerves to return back, Bucky catches it, handles it like a sword and cleaves through the ring of creatures trying to surround him and sink their jaws into him.

The shield comes back to Steve at full force, cutting through a few more before Steve catches it and knocks a few back.

“We need back up. Or the airport won’t stand a chance!” Steve calls in. “They’re too many!”

The familiar sound of crackling energy makes Steve look up just as Captain Marvel appears and a surge of blinding gold light cuts through the sky, making it rain with several insect parts and loud dying shrieks. Circling in from across the river, Steve catches sight of the familiar gray and silver bulk of War Machine, raining bullets and taking down several more creatures with him.

“Strange is on site, Ohio Drive, south west. He’s trying to close the portal!” Rhodey calls in, just as he veers off to the far side of the river, trying to keep the creatures from going past the ten mile radius.

“Strange better be working quick!” Steve says, breathing through his mouth as he slams his shield down on one of the creatures.

“National guard and SHIELD is in containment position. Hulk has been released.” Natasha chimes in and from a distance, Steve picks up the familiar roar and catches a glimpse of green jumping up into the sky and massacring everything within the projectile path.

A heart beat later, the familiar golden laser glow from Vision’s infinity stone slices through an onslaught of gnarling fangs.

Steve hears Bucky telling him to duck and doesn’t think twice before he throws himself down to the ground, just as a truck car door soars over his head and embeds itself on two of the aliens. Steve is on his feet again and punching his way through the oncoming swarm, now more focused on trying to engage those actively trying to bite his head off.

“You got their attention!” Clint chimes in.

“No shit.” Bucky says, hoarse and breathless.

“We need more aerial support--” Steve _curses_ and the dry bark of laughter from that follows from Clint cuts off when the familiar sight of the Iron Legion dots the skies, flying in from Giesboro park, cadavers and body parts raining from the sky and hitting the surface of the lake. Steve feels himself slow down, momentarily distracted when some of the creatures leave him to engage the new hostile arrival.

It happens for no more than two heart beats, barely even a second and a half.

Then Steve feels the force of a body _shoving_ him out of the way, knocking him to the side, and the _scream_ that rings louder and above the beastly screeches.

He turns and finds Bucky on one knee, firing his Sig-Sauer while his entire left shoulder blade and a good portion of the his left torso smokes and hisses. Steve sees it happening before his eyes in slow motion, watches as Bucky doesn’t fire nearly enough bullets to prevent the swarm from circling and closing in on him. Steve’s feet doesn’t feel like it’s moving fast enough, his fist and shield _tearing_ through the swarm in front of him, trying to get to Bucky to clear enough space to cover for him. He watches as Bucky falters, going down on _both_ knees as the acid tears through the tender flesh of his arm and side.

Steve can feel his throat _rip_ with the syllables of Bucky’s name, watches as Bucky goes down face first on the ground and the hideous brown alien bodies surround him.

The flash of white light and the sound of repulsor rays firing and the brief flash of gold and red from the corner of his eye, is the only warning Steve gets, before he brings up the shield without thinking, like it had only been yesterday and he feels the heat and force of the blast against his shield, the ray of blinding white light bouncing off the vibranium surface cutting a thick line through the swarm of monsters.

The whine dies out and when Steve lowers his shield, he _drinks_ in, what he thinks is possibly the most _beautiful_ sight in the entire world.

Iron Man lowers both hands briefly, before raising it again and _firing_ at his direction.

Steve doesn’t doesn’t even falter, as the rays fly past the sides of his head and squarely hits two of the creatures behind him.

Bucky’s _scream_ is what cuts through the haze. He is trying to push himself off the ground with his good arm, flesh smoking as the acid eats through his back, spreading like infection and dissolving skin, bone and flesh. Steve watches as he pushes back more of the creatures, slays them with renewed _desperation_ , as Bucky collapses down on his elbow and goes through the pain of having a good portion of his body _dissolve_ , forehead _digging_ into the gravel.

Steve watches, with equal parts horror, equal parts helplessness as the communication line _explodes_ , as three other Iron Man suits join them on the tarmac, pushing more of the oncoming swarm _back_ , standing back to back with him and Tony as they try to maintain the protective circle around the fallen Winter Soldier. Steve hears himself calling for back up, hears his voice shake with each syllable. He hears Tony bark orders, hears how _scared_ he sounds, hears him _yell_ at Friday in a tone that Steve never wants to hear ever _again_.

There is a brief flash of bright illuminating green, as talismans starts appearing in the sky and the portal start to shrink, the sides sparking with green lighting until it disappears without much of a sound.

The creatures, however, do not drop dead like the chitauri.

There is a loud and deafening collective shriek before they start double their efforts to _destroy_.

Multiple golden portals open and Steve watches as he lands another punch, as men and women dressed in what looks like eastern Asian robes appear, palms pressed before them before he feels reality around him shift; it feels a little like dropping into a vacuum, as the world around him cracks, and it feels like he’s sinking into a dome of cracked glass. He turns around long enough to see Bucky going into choking shock on the ground, eyes wide open and staring at the sky unseeingly; Steve watches as one of Strange’s people walk right over him and do him no harm, as they slice through one of the creatures with illuminating weapons and whiplashes and blades of gold light.

Steve throws off a few of the creatures in Iron Man’s direction, watching them explode to gooey gray smithereens when the repulsor hits them. He watches as Carol swoops down on the ground, unaware and unperturbed of the fighting at all with Rhodey hot on her heels, picks Bucky off the ground and carries him away to where Steve hopes is medical attention.

They do not notice their presence.

They move right _through_ them.

The roar of the hulk echoes and Steve feels the ground shake and crack like glass when the Hulk tears through a swarm to his left, using one of the creatures like a makeshift weapon, sending several limbs and screeches up in the air.

Steve feels a hand grab him then, _yanking_ him backward as he turns and sees Strange sweat stricken and panting face.

“We’re keeping the doctor; go help your friend.” Strange says and without warming, slams one palm each on both Steve’s and Iron Man’s chest.

And Steve falls backwards, watching the creatures and the reality in front of him dissolve as Strange disappears behind cracked glass doors of another dimension.

\--

Tony hits the ground with a loud clank, and gets up whipping around to see the destruction of the airport and _silence_ the hangs over Petomac River. Where there should have been hundreds of creatures that still needs eradicating, now, lies bodies of those they had killed earlier.

The Hulk is nowhere to be seen.

The communication line buzzes as Steve presses a hand to his ear and barks out orders for stats; the moment they get a location on the Winter Soldier, Tony is grabbing Steve from behind and jetting them to the emergency response team just outside of the airport. Tony had taken one look at the wounds that had been eating away at Bucky and did not even think twice when he orders Friday to bring him Extremis.

And when he lands on the ground and Steve takes off across the road to see the first aid being administered, Tony finds himself slowing down in his rush, the suit peeling off him as shock paints all over his bare face.

Bucky is lying in a pool of body fluid and smoking flesh, a good chunk of his left side dissolved and his metal arm lying uselessly against his side. What should have been muscle and bone is now nothing but a chunk of exposed human meat; the decay is not as fast as it should be and Tony can see, from where he stands a good five feet away that the bastardized Super Soldier serum coursing through Bucky’s veins is trying its best to heal the wounds.

It isn’t fast enough and he watches as Bucky lies there, delirious and barely coherent as the medical team tries to stop the spread.

Tony knows Bucky is not going to make it.

He is not going to live through _this_.

It’s there when his head lolls to one side, when their gazes meet with five feet worth of road between them that Tony sees _it_ , that expression he remembers so clearly and so vividly, that look _James had_  given him when he had woken up that one morning, the kind that tells Tony he’s the only thing that matters. That he means something. That he _is_  something.

The clang of the Mark 40 landing breaks Tony out of that trance, as the suit opens up and Tony takes out the pressurized container, closing the distance between himself and Bucky and taking it apart to expose the syringe. He pushes the medical team aside, ignores the shouts of protests and when Steve _grabs_ him, when Steve’s hand comes on his wrist, Tony stops. He is as breathless as Steve and when Tony looks him in the eye and blinks away the moisture gathering around the corner of his vision, Steve releases him.

Tony lifts Bucky’s head and injects the virus, watching the new formula and all its golden glow disappear into the decaying flesh.

The syringe clatters to the side of the road with an audible clink, as helicopters roar and fly overhead and Bucky struggles to breathe.

Tony waits for ten seconds, and then another twenty and when nothing happens, when Friday tells him that there seems to be a delayed response, Tony feels his stomach drop to the ground.

He turns to look at Steve, looks at him like has some sort of answer, opens his mouth to say something, to tell him that _it’s supposed to work, it’s going to work, why isn’t it working_?

But Steve doesn’t move, as pale as a sheet of paper.

Steve doesn’t even say anything as his lips tremble and he turns his gaze to Bucky whose eyelids are starting to droop, breathing patterns slowing and flesh hand barely twitching.

Tony feels his world still, feels himself slowly suffocate as he turns his attention to Bucky, picks up his head in his forearm, brushing the hair off the pale face and begs him, _begs_ him to wait, please wait, just give it a minute, just holdon, please wait, please, please, _pleasepleaseplaese –_

But Bucky doesn’t wait.

Because he _can’t._

The magnitude of the grief that hits Tony then is something he doesn’t expect. The sense of loss that swallows him as he watches Bucky’s lips parts, as the words, so soft in their syllables and so vulnerable in their admission, reaches his ears. He watches as blue of Bucky’s eyes darken, watches his pupils dilate until there is only a sea black, as empty and soulless as the body that Tony now holds in his arms. He watches as his chest stills and bleeding and burning stops and in the space of a few heartbeats, Tony dares to hope that Extremis is working.

_It’s working, it’s working, it’sworkingit’sworkingit’sworking!_

Bucky’s lungs doesn’t move.

Nor does he blink.

Tony tries to think of _where_ he had gone wrong, that maybe he had fucked up the formula. He tries to think of a hundred reasons of why it would fail and can come up with _none,_ so when he feels hands on him, when he struggles against Rhodey pulling him back, when he tells them to wait, feeling every bit of him _shake_ with anticipation, because _wait just a minute, it’s working, I swear it’s working, we have to move him, we have to get him somewhere safe and out of the open, it’s working, it’s working, I promise –_

The surge of impatience and denial flares in Tony’s arm as he _shoves_ Rhodey aside, his enhance strength sending his best friend a good six feet away and into Carol’s arms.

(It’s not working.)

There is strength in the arms that wraps around him and _hauls_ him off Bucky, there is power in the arms that pulls him away from the unseeing blue gaze that stares at nothing, distance growing between himself and the man that had told him that he is _everything._

_(You're everything.)_

“He’s gone, he’s gone – “ Steve says and pins Tony against the wall, away from the view of the body. It is only when Steve presses both his ungloved hands on Tony’s face, when he _holds_ Tony’s face in one place, looks into his eyes and Tony _sees_ the tears lining Steve’s face, sees the _grief_ distorting the image of America’s golden boy, Tony feels his tongue go still, the desperate denial and begging coming to a stuttering halt. “He’s gone, Tony…”

Steve says the words softly, quietly, as large drops of grief stricken tears cloud the blue green of his eyes and Tony feels the nausea hit him. He feels the tremors return with a vengeance because Steve never lies, not with words. Steve wouldn’t say anything, he’d omit words, but he would never _lie._ There is no lie in the way Steve brings his hand down to Tony’s shoulders when Tony goes rigidly still, no lie when the sudden inhale sounds like struggle for breath and uncontrolled sob, no lie in the way Steve’s fingers _curl_ against the fabric of Tony’s t-shirt, gripping it until the good Captain’s knuckles go _white_. There is no lie when Steve just shakes his head, the same way Tony is shaking his head, pushing against the bulk of Steve’s body, trying to go back to the body waiting to respond to the Extremis, because it’s got to happen any moment now. It may even be happening now!

Tony feels his throat _hurt_ and burn as he _argues_ , as he tries to point out to Steve that it isn’t hopeless, that _It’s gonna work! It’s gonna work, Steve and he’ll be okay, he’ll be okay and you just gotta give it time to work, sometimes there are delays, and maybe it’s the Super Soldier serum! If you could just wait and let me – just let me – let me try to save him! Stop shaking your head! Stop saying he’s gone, stopstopstopstopstop –_

“He’s gone…” Steve says, and boxes Tony in when Tony struggles, tries to throw him off before he wraps his arms around Tony and  brings a hand against the back of his skull, holds him _tight_. “He’s gone, Tony.”

(Snip~ snippity~ snip-snip~)

Tony scrunches his eyes shut and goes rigidly still in Steve’s arms.

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, wake up, wake up wake up, _wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup!_

(You didn’t think I was all _gone_ , did you, Tony~)

_Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup._

(I got not strings, to hold me down, to make me fret or make me frown, I had strings, but now I’m free, there are no strings on me~)

Tony opens his eyes, feels the world awash with _white_ before it explodes into the familiar endless sea of world wide web’s black, where the sound of a billion voices, are drowned out by the _scream_ ripping past his throat.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. 
> 
> Bai.


	10. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own BETA. I am sure that despite 100 reads, I have missed a lot of DUH-SO-OBVIOUS typos. 
> 
> EVEN SHORTER CHAPTER THAN USUAL! I AM USUALLY FASTER THAN THIS BUT OH WELL.

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”   
― [ **Victor Hugo**](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13661.Victor_Hugo), [ **Les Misérables**](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3208463)

 

 

  
Steve thinks that the silence that follows the deepest loss after a battle is always the loudest.

It is loud not because those around him in the quinjet remain seated like stone statues, muted and hushed, but because it is in those moments that one realizes just how big someone had truly been a part of them, how vast the loss is that that it feels like there is no bone or muscle holding one’s neck and head up, because when you lose a loved one, it feels like being cleaved in half. Steve wonders if losing someone you care for, someone who has been a part of you for as long as you can remember during the heat of battle, when everything around you is moving too fast, or burning too hot, that you need to move, soldier, move, move move, if losing someone _then_ is better than during a pause.

Decades ago, Steve did not have a body to bury, did not even have a pair of dog tags to remind him or return to existing family members.

Back then, when Bucky had fallen, there had been nothing else but his memory to hold on to.

This time however, secured and lying six feet in front of where Steve had slumped on the ground, is a body bag.

This time, there is _something_.

And the irony doesn’t escape Steve that Bucky dies in the most gruesome way possible, the way countless of soldiers had died during the Second World War, with pieces of him melted and gone, the softest parts of him liquefied and seeping into the asphalt, a mash of bone and flesh and tissue, and every bit as gruesome as all the other soldiers whose bodies were either burned or forgotten behind enemy lines. The irony that not all soldiers die in the greatest of battles does not evade Steve either, that sometimes, even the best of the best, can go down in a none-world-shattering assignment. That even Super Soldiers are no exception from the regularities of battle.

There will be a body to bury this time.

Steve would be present during the honorary proceedings of the funeral, when back then he had missed it, too, going down in that plane.

This time, he’d hear the gun point salutes, he’d hear the speeches, he’d feel the earth in his fist, and smell the flowers and wreaths.

This time, it truly feels _real_.

Steve brings his knees up and props his elbows on them, pressing his palms to the back of his head and closing his eyes as the grief swallows him again at that realization. He feels the heat streak down his cheeks in his weakness, feels the crushing weight drag the hollowness in his chest wider open still, all the way down until it feels like he is ripped in half and suspended in air, with nothing much holding him together. He’s never truly had the time to mourn the loss of his comrades, and maybe Peggy had been some sort of saving grace. It had felt like a good bye to so many things he had missed and should have been part of.

But even then, the grief is _nothing_ compared to _this_.

(Because even when you had _nothing_ , you had Bucky.)

The grief doesn’t ebb either, like turbulent waves lashing against the shoreline, harsh and all sharp in its roar, eating away at rock and sand, wearing it down. Steve feels his shoulder quake for what feels like _hours_ , when he knows that it’s only a short flight between DC and New York on the quinjet. He remembers his mother all of a sudden, all those years ago when the soldiers had come knocking on their door, when their sombre faces is all Sarah had needed. Steve remembers how she had come to him, smiling and grief rimming her beautiful green eyes,  remembers how she had embraced him and _held_ him and said, _your daddy is not coming home, but he is a hero and he is brave; don’t forget that._

Steve wonders, if Sarah had known that he had seen how she had collapsed in the kitchen, beside herself with grief after she had tucked him into bed and he had heard the slight commotion when she had been doing the dishes after dinner. He wonders if the grief his mother had felt is the same as the grief he feels now. He wonders if like him right now, his mother had felt like being stuck in a vacuum, where everything around her had dulled down to nothing but a hush, to the point that she can only hear her own heartbeat and the choked sounds that she tries to muffle and swallow. He wonders if her jaw had ached the way his is now, from how hard she must have clenched it, how her teeth had grinded against each other and how the tears just does not stop falling.

Most of all, Steve wonders if like his mother, he’d find the strength to get up from the ground he’s sitting on, the way she eventually had picked herself up from their match-box sized of a kitchen floor.

There is no containment for this kind of grief.

There is no way to silence it.

Steve doesn’t bother to try because he can’t find the _strength_ in him to do so; in his powerlessness, he doesn’t bother to hide it and like all bright flares, eventually, he feels the tears slow down until he is left with a kind of numbness he doesn’t remember feeling since that one Christmas morning, all those years ago, when he had looked at the face of a man that he had come to realize means a whole lot more to him than he had been previously aware of. It is that numbness too, he remembers feeling when Peggy’s Alzheimer had consumed her in the middle of their conversation, a reminder that he is once more, all but left behind.

(You don’t belong anywhere; you are always alone.)

It is strange, what grief does to a Super Soldier.

It is stranger still how his mind suddenly feels more hyper aware, how he can hear the clicking and continuous hums of the quinjet’s engine, how he feels the tremble of the ground he sits on as they fly through slightly unstable weather. He hears Clint’s fingers tap against the armrest, slow and controlled, a tick of his when he’s lost in thought and in comfortable company. He hears Natasha shifts, hears her fingers dance over a digi-pad as she puts together their casualty report to hand over upon arrival, losing herself in work and productivity, even when though her breaths are very _carefully_ measured, almost meditative in their flow. He hears Sam speak, hears how they’re changing altitudes and how they’re just a little over thirty minutes away from their New York facility. He listens to the distant sound of a concerto playing on wireless headphones, as Bruce remains huddled in the corner, wrapped in a blanket and staring into nothingness.

He counts four heart beats, and listens to them above his own, focuses on something else other than his own – _anything_ but his own.

He tries to think of other things other than the body he will eventually have to bury; he thinks of Rhodey and his dislocated shoulder, a casualty from where Tony had shoved him back in the blindness of his grief. He thinks of how War Machine had blasted off into the sky, the sound of jets drowning the chaos of Washington DC, as he chases after Tony with Vision right behind him. Steve thinks of Carol and how she will stall on her husband’s absence, on how she will explain the sudden power outage and surge that had happened all at once when Tony had _lost it_.

He thinks of Tony and that haunted look on his face, how the hope had departed from his eyes just as quick as Bucky’s last breath had left his lungs. He thinks of how two words had brought down all the walls and barricades, and all the forged iron Tony hides behind because he doesn’t know better, because he’s been forced to. He thinks of how Tony had looked at him like he’s betrayed him, like _I didn’t do enough_ and Steve wonders if the pain he feels in his heart, is similar to the pain Tony feels now, wherever he is. Steve thinks of how his tongue had felt like lead in his mouth in the wake of the grief he had watched unfold before him, when he sees something that looks too much like love dying of betrayals, of tarnishing and mistakes, of missed opportunities, of blindness and too much weariness and insecurities. Steve had wanted to say more, wishes he had said more, when he knows, that the loss Tony had felt then will never heal.

Just as much as Steve’s own loss will never heal, either.

Death is powerful, Steve thinks, because it makes those you leave behind want to end their lives; he sees it, the raw visceral need for it when he watched pools of amber disappear behind a sea of black, when that black had peppered with dots of white in the severity of that loss and _rage_ and _regret_ , when red and gold had clamped shut like a shell protecting its soft parts from the harsh world and Steve had done nothing.

Because Steve didn’t have the strength.

Steve had watched the sky for a long time, almost unseeing, long after Iron Man, War Machine and Vision had disappeared from view and remembers feeling like the _weakest_ man on earth.

He remembers feeling _regret_ too.

The I wish I hads and then if only I hads had started to play like a broken record at the back of his skull.

Nothing seemed to matter – not yet, anyway.

Steve feels his lungs shudder, and he swallows past the desert in his throat and asks himself if he’ll be okay, if they’ll all be okay, if Tony will be okay.

(He won’t. Neither will you. But you’re both going to try, because there’s nothing else you _can_ do.)

The quinjet dips just the slightest bit as it flies through light turbulence, taking with it Steve’s stomach, making him feel just a touch nauseous.

Steve uses the moment to break away from questions he had no answers to and focuses again on something smaller, something that’s present, something to ground himself because he had to be strong, he _needs_ to be strong, for the team, for Tony but mostly for himself – Bucky would have wanted that.

He counts one, two three, four, five, and the sixth heartbeat.

The sixth makes Steve’s head snap up, eyes wide and almost unseeing at the sudden movement.

The sixth heartbeat makes his lungs contract and his knees feel like jelly. It makes him sit up straighter and his lashes blink rapidly as he reaches up to wipe the tears off his face with a vicious swipe of his arm. Steve shakes his head, trying to clear the haze that doesn’t really exist and counts again – one, two, three four, five as his own and the sixth one. It’s there, slow at first, with long pauses in between. These pauses gradually shrink and the span between each beat shortens until the heartbeat regulates and Steve feels his lungs _expand_ with a sharp intake of breath that _hurts_ his sides.

He looks behind him and sees Bruce, Natasha, Clint and Sam, all looking at him with pale faces and grief around the corners of their eyes. Steve shakes his head again, pops his ears in case he’s hearing things. Because grief does that to a person, it fuels their denial.

Steve turns to look at the body bag, eyes wide and chest expanding and expanding and still _expanding_ like a giant hot air balloon that wants to soar with something he refuses to acknowledge as hope.

(Hope is dangerous; hope can destroy you, especially when it is false.)

Steve doesn’t hear his teammates go after him, doesn’t hear them asking him to stop, or how Sam switches to auto-pilot. He doesn’t hear them as he kneels by the body bag and yanks the zipper down to find a black cocoon when it should have been Bucky’s ashy white and bloodied face. Steve doesn’t hear how his lungs explode with something that sounds like relief and a shout of _joy_ as he pulls the rest of the zipper down and pushes the bag away. He doesn’t hear himself when he collapses on his ass and stares at the familiar sight of Extremis actually _working_.

And when Sam scrambles to turn the plane around, to alter their routes when Natasha barks out an alternative landing place away from prying eyes, when she scraps the entire report all together, when the cocoon starts to crack, and Bucky comes out of it with a gasp that dissolves to gurgling wet coughs, his mouth expelling blood and black matter and yellowed and greying fluids, when Bruce is the first to snap into action and is carefully maneuvering him to a better position. The fluids keeps coming out of Bucky, like sick and rot leaving him until there is nothing left and he is slumped against Bruce’s arm and trying to catch his breath.

And in all of it, Steve can only laugh and _laugh_ and cry and _sob_ like a wounded animal at the same time, with his mouth covered with both his hands as his best friend looks at him with the most dazed and puzzled look, as good as new, stronger better and fully whole, skin smooth and scarless and metal arm nowhere in sight.

“Stevie…?” Bucky says, _breathless_ , as he _looks_ at _both_ his flesh hands, sitting there defenseless like a newborn child, lost and so full of wonder and nervousness.

“Oh Buck…” Steve says and sucks in a breath that is wet, sniffling through his nose as he crawls over and wraps his arms around his best friend.

(I thought I lost you. Again.)

“I’ve got a signal from War Machine’s comm-line. He’s at the manor.” Clint calls out from where he had taken his spot on the pilot’s seat, and Steve doesn’t have to turn to see the grin on his face. “And we are re-routing.”

Steve pulls back from the embrace and takes the blanket that Bruce passes on to him, wrapping it around Bucky’s shoulders. The rest of the team fans out, giving them some semblance of privacy. Steve carefully helps Bucky off the remains of the cocoon and the body bag, and onto one of the chairs. Bucky is trembling, goosebumps breaking all over his skin and a touch unsteady on his feet. Steve doesn’t think twice in helping him into some standard issue non-descript sweats and t-shirt, doesn’t even bat an eyelash as he sinks to his knees and slips socks onto Bucky’s feet.

“Why did you do that?” Steve asks, not flicking up as he tugs another sock on. “Jump in the line of fire, push me away…”

“Why wouldn’t I?” The words is enough to make Steve’s gaze jerk up at him, to find blue eyes looking back at him wide and worried. “It would have killed you. I always have your six -- you know that. Right?”

Steve watches Bucky’s face blur, as the tears start falling. “Buddy, you _died_.” Steve brings a hand up to his mouth, sucking another wet breath and then another, and it feels like being six again, when there had been nights when his lungs had hurt _so bad_ , when breathing had been absolute torture that he had not been able to just _not_ cry. “And I’m not -- I couldn’t -- Buck, I _can’t_. If Tony hadn’t -- if he didn’t -- I _can’t_ , Buck. Not _again_. Not over _me_.”

The smile that tugs on his lips is sad and there isn’t much to say to something like that, so Bucky doesn’t. Instead, he reaches forward and places a hand on Steve’s shoulder, squeezing. “I’d do it again. And again. Maybe next time, don’t get too distracted, hmm?”

“No…” Steve answers, lips peeling back into a grin that tapers off to a grieving snarl as he keeps coming apart no matter how hard he tries to hold himself together, keeping his head together. “Never again.”

“Good.” Bucky answers and places his hand against Steve’s face. “You’ll be all right?”

“Yeah…” Steve says and sucks in a shuddering sob before he finds himself leaning forward and placing his forehead on Bucky’s right lap, as the grief paves way for relief and the his shoulders wracks with a moment of allowed weakness.

Bucky doesn’t push him away, his hand coming to rest on the back of Steve’s head instead in a comforting gesture, warm and gentle and a reminder that Bucky is not a bloodied and disfigured corpse inside a body bag, but whole and _alive_.

It doesn’t last long and by the end of it, Steve is sitting on the ground staring up at Bucky and feeling more like himself than he had in a _very_ long time. He sees his best friend growing up sitting before him, a little frayed, a little worried, a little worn with age but he’s there. Steve doesn’t know if the new re-generated James Buchanan Barnes means that all of Hydra’s programming has been removed completely, but it doesn’t change the fact that the man before him will always be the heroic man he’s known when he had been younger, because Bucky is courageous enough to die for something he deems worthy. No programming, no sick scientist theory or experiment is going to take that away. Steve is reminded of that now, as Bucky looks at him with the smallest of smiles on his lips before he drops his gaze back to his hands, blue eyes lingering on the new flesh hand that seems so unreal and almost other worldly in its miracle.

And in that moment, Steve finds himself thinking that Bucky has room to not just be heroic, but inspirational; he thinks it’s time that Bucky lives a little bit more.

“Is everyone all right?” Bucky asks and Steve shakes his head at that. “Is Tony all right?” Bucky asks again, eyebrows knitting and throat bobbing as he forms those words, unsure and suddenly so incredibly _small_ and _weak_ , his jaw tight fingers clenching until his knuckles go white, before he releases them slowly to lay them flat on his knee-caps.

“I’m gonna take you to him.” Steve says and he’s never been happier and more confident in his words than he is now. When Bucky gaze meets his own, they’re wide and apprehensive, and almost afraid that it looks so out of place. Steve reaches forward and takes both of his hands in his. “You do what you think is right. I got your back, whatever you decide.”

(I’m with you to the end of the line, no matter where that lives me, if it’s you, and if it’s Tony, then you’re both worth it. You’re both _everything_.)

\--

Loss, Tony thinks, feels a lot like isolation.

He is lying on his back, somewhere in the backyard with his armor gone, staring at the darkening skies above him. There is a bit of a breeze brushing over his skin, drying the salt tracks on his face, a result of him screaming and allowing himself to grieve in the muted confines of his suit, all the way from Washington DC until he had touched down, somewhat shakily within the comforts of his property. He had landed without much grace, damaging the perfectly manicured garden, leaving holes of uprooted grass in his wake, until he had come to a stop, his legs partially under the shade of the tree, while his face soaking up the last of the afternoon rays over the horizon.

His breath is calmer when Vision and Rhodey eventually catches up.

Rhodey says nothing when he sits beside him, cradling his arm against his chest.

There is _nothing_ to say even when dusk paints the sky and stars starts to come out.

It is in one’s moments of weakness that one reflects on the course their lives had chosen to follow; Tony thinks it’s not all _that_ bad – in the midst all his shame, both physical and emotional, his heightened self-loathing, the inability to just hold on to things because of his shortcomings, he had managed to upturn Stark Industries and spread good to the world; he had brought heroes home, had given some of them clean slates and new beginnings. In retrospect, his demons had turned to his angels because had it not been for them, Tony doesn’t think he would have thrown himself into innovation, decimation and creation the way he had. If it hadn’t been for them, he would have never saved himself and the world would have been all the more less for it, mourning the loss of a futurist.

It isn’t all bad.

It isn’t _all_ utter failures.

It should not have affected him the way it did, Tony thinks. Bucky’s death should not have felt like he had been _shredded_ to a million pieces. He has failed to save countless lives in the past, why should this be any different?

(It’s different because you’ve put a good part of yourself into him when you made that arm. You had practically ripped your heart out and held it up for him, vulnerable and open, _absolutely terrified_ , right from the moment you had agreed to help him. It had taken no less than the first week during your stay with him in Nevada, nothing but seven days for you to see just how the guilt had held him down, how shame had painted the corners of his eyes like warrior’s paint, how it had dulled what once upon time might have been the brightest blue eyes. You had seen in it during the waking hours after a nightmare, had heard it in his restless pacing, seen it stretch over the tense lines of his shoulder.

You saw it _all_.

And what might have started as a way to prove yourself worthy, that you don’t abandon your friends, that you don’t just turn your back on them when you are _inconvenienced_ , even if that means helping the one who had murdered your parents, had suddenly changed the moment his eyes opened and he had stared at the new bionic arm in _wonder_. You had thought then, as you caressed your fingers over metallic perfection that he’s going to be okay.

You had seen it in the way he looked at you, marvelling, and trying to keep up, always trying, trying, _trying so goddamn hard_ , to be worth your efforts, to be worthy of the worlds forgiveness – _your_ forgiveness.

You had seen it in the feeds you had spent _hours_ watching, how he had taken care of you when you had been nothing but five, countless photos uploaded into your private cloud, him helping you feed the ducks, him walking you around the park – him telling you that everything that he is, his rights, his privileges, his freedom and his ability to choose, it’s all because of you.  And you had felt it in all its reverence, when his lips had pressed against yours, when his arms held you tight and never let go, when he looked at you like you had been the center of _his_ world – _when you had been his everything_.

You should have known better than to look away. You should have known better than to take the dismissal, the fear, the _hesitance_ for granted because doesn’t it just remind you so much of _yourself_?)

Tony sucks in a shaky breath and it feels like Afghanistan all over again, with his chest feeling raw and numb and _open_.

(You see too much of yourself in him. And now he’s gone. You shouldn’t be asking yourself why it didn’t work, why Extremis failed, why were you too slow, why didn’t you notice anything sooner? How could you have been so blind?

The question you should be asking yourself is: what are you going to do now?)

“I can’t do this, anymore.” Tony says, and for once in what feels like a _lifetime_ , the truth feels foreign and heavy on his tongue.

“Tones…” Rhodey looks like he is having a hard time swallowing past the bolus of grief in his throat.

“It hurts.” Tony says, and when he sucks in a breath, it feels like he is inhaling sand. “It hurts _so bad_ , Jim.”

Rhodey brings a clammy hand against his forehead and no words leaves past the thinly pressed line of his lips. There are no words that can ease this kind of pain and when Tony looks at Rhodey, he watches as the sheer _hurt_ he feels lies reflected in the depths of Rhodey’s dark eyes. He sees the grief there too, the helplessness in not being able to know what to do, or what to say. He sees the silence that stretches like the isolation he feels, disconnected from the world and yet so poignant in its clarity.

“I’m so sorry,” Rhodey says, and his voice _almost_ cracks.

“Don’t be.” Tony says, and tries to smile, but ends up grimacing. “I’m all right.”

“No, you are not.” Rhodey answers, swallowing and clearing his throat. “I don’t think you’ll ever be all right, Tones. You haven’t been for a while. But now…”

(You find yourself wondering why you’re even bothered to try anymore.)

“I’m tired.” Tony says, and the weight of honesty once more not lost on him. “Go home, Jim. Go home to your wife, to your daughter. I’ll be all right.”

“No, you won’t…” Rhodey says and brings a hand up to press against his left eye; when Tony looks closer he sees how Rhodey is pushing back the tears that are threatening to spill. “No, you won’t be all right.”

Tony tries to shrug and gesture must have been the stick that broke the camel’s back because Rhodey crumples then, soft choking sobs muffled by a fist, the both of them sitting there under the embrace of dusk. Tony listens to him cry, listens to Rhodey weep at his helplessness, at the realization that there is _nothing_ he can do. Tony watches with whatever that is left of him, the endless stretch of desert in his chest, everything now crumbled to fine sand. He watches and wishes he had it in him to weep too, because weeping would make him feel _something_.

He had exhausted everything during the flight back to New York, had screamed and screamed and wept under the Iron Man hud until he had not been able to see in front of him.

(You know what Rhodey sees, what he hears even when you don’t say the words out loud: I should have died after mom and dad and Jarvis’ funeral, should have just over-dosed. I should have died in the Funvee, I should have died in that cave, in the fight and flight out of the Ten Rings’ grasp. I should have died before Monaco, or even after it. I should have died after Ultron, after the Civil War. I should have died in Siberia. I should have died in that bed in Wakanda. I should have died ten times over before Extremis. I wish I had.)

“I’m so sorry, buddy.” Tony says, and reaches out to take Rhodey’s hand. “I don’t think I’ll recover from this one.”

Rhodey nods in agreement, trying to contain himself but doesn’t quite manage. He brings Tony’s hand over his forehead, pressing it there as the sobs continues to pour out of him, until it gradually subsides.

The sky is dark by the time the silence falls upon them, the stars slowly starting to come out.

“Mister Stark…” Vision says, breaking his silence, soft and hesitant and so incredibly human in its tenors that for the briefest of moments, Tony deludes himself into thinking that he’s talking to Jarvis and not Vision. “Is there I can do?”

“No, buddy.” Tony murmurs and carefully sits up, bringing both his hands to his face before he picks himself off the ground and starts walking to the manor. “Just make sure Jim gets his shoulder looked at.”

“The team is headed our way.” Vision supplies, hesitant. “They are estimated to arrive in the next ten minutes.”

“They know where to land. Take care of them too while you’re at it.” Tony murmurs and doesn’t spare a second look behind him as he crosses the lawn and takes the side entrance into the eastern wing of the manor.

And when he steps into the workshop, Tony feels the numbness almost paralyze him. He wades through what feels like invisible molasses, as he takes a seat behind the driver’s seat of a GT500E convertible he had bought on a whim from a junkyard in Kiev years ago, something he had wanted to rebuild and never really got around to doing it. He tilts his head against the driver’s seat and like he always does whenever his heart stops working, or when it feels like he no longer has one, Tony connects to the network and _works_.

He pulls up everything he had on Extremis, studies them again and again, goes through the changes, the coding– he picks at everything over and over again even as he reaches the same conclusion.

It should have worked.

Except it didn’t.

And in Tony’s grief and desperation, he can’t seem to figure out _where_ he went wrong.  
  
\--

  
Bucky remembers _everything_.

He remembers how the inky blackness had clouded around the corners of his vision, blotting out the city and the noise, color draining from the world around him, just like the blood that had been gushing out of his crushed and exposed side. He remembers the bitter taste at the back of his mouth, a reminiscence of the days he had forced into the chair, strapped down and his life stripped from him over and over again until he had nothing more than a misshapen and dull ‘clean’ slate. Death, he has come to realize, is something he isn’t a stranger to apparently.

The only difference this time had been the absence of fear.

Bucky remembers how terrified he had always been of the chair, how even as the chair had become a familiar friend, the lingering fear of the pain and feeling his insides melt and boil had never fully gone away. It had lingered like chronic ache in his muscle, deep and old, that even something like numbness had felt sharp and poignant.

This time though, Bucky had felt breath in his lungs. He had tasted the clamminess of the alley and the sweetness of spring lingering in Washington’s air. He had felt what had been left of his lung expand and struggle through the garbled mess and it had been _nothing_ compared to everything he had felt decades ago. His injuries didn’t matter, the taste of copper and acid in his mouth didn’t matter, the pain didn’t matter.

But Bucky had looked into Tony’s eyes, had watched the hope drain from his gaze when he must have realized that there is no saving him this time, that for sure, Bucky had been a goner. Bucky had felt hope too, in those moments, only for hope to be replaced by forgiveness and acceptance during the last few beats of heart. And in what had felt like his final moment, Bucky had felt a swell of courage that he hadn’t felt since he had first signed up for the army all those years ago. He remembers thinking, _I’m not afraid anymore – I never should have been. Because it’s you. I’m stronger because of you._

Tony’s face is the last thing he remembers seeing. It is the last thing he remembers feeling under his flesh hand, crumpling in grief and disbelief as the darkness had taken Bucky away.

Now here Bucky stands, right before Tony who is lost to the world and running renders and schematics in multiple screens all around the workshop, eyes as black as the night sky and staring at the ceiling.

Friday tells him minutes upon his entry and the team had left him alone that she had informed Tony of his presence.

But Tony doesn’t snap out of his work flow.

Tony doesn’t disconnect from Extremis, nor does he _pause_.

So Bucky stands there like a sentinel, watching as minutes turns to hours and color slowly drain from Tony’s features. He stands there wordlessly and _waits_ until the screens slowly dim down one by one and blackness in Tony’s eyes recedes, replaced instead by bloodshot whites and dulled amber that Bucky still thinks is incredibly beautiful.

Tony doesn’t flinch when his gaze pans over to him, he doesn’t move from where he is sitting frozen in his old and unpainted Mustang. He doesn’t say a word, either. And for the longest moment, they stare at each other that way, and Bucky knows – oh how he _knows -_  that Tony must think that he is losing his mind.

“Friday tells me you injected me with Extremis.” Bucky breaks the ice, voice _hoarse_ and syllables shaky. “I guess there was a delayed response. I’m not – I mean – the Hydra formula, it ain’t like Steve’s and, you know… I’m slower. Not as good and…” Bucky holds up both his flesh hands, something he is still having a hard time believing. He doesn’t think he’ll get used to feeling with _both_ his hands again.

“It worked…” Tony says, _breathless_.

“It did.” Bucky says and looks up from his new flesh hand to find Tony straightening out of the convertible, one hand pressing against the hood to stabilize himself. Tony looks like he staring at a ghost; Bucky feels a smile twitch a little sardonically at that. “Got a real arm again, and all…” He doesn’t think twice about pulling off the sweatshirt, exposing a stretch of healthy and smooth skin, not a sign of injury or any of his old scars that the formula had not been able to heal seamlessly. The jagged lines on his shoulder where the bionic arm had been attached too is no longer present, and the slight gait to his stance had been corrected. Bucky isn’t sure how fixed he truly is, but the difference is undeniable. He fans his fingers out, the sudden sensation on his left side still throwing him for a loop. “See?” Tony is silent, even as he brings a hand to his chest to rub at what Bucky can only assume to be an ache he may never be able to soothe.

“You _died_.” Tony says, and looks up from where his gaze had been fixed on Bucky’s new flesh arm to meet Bucky’s gaze.

“I know.” Bucky says, and watches as Tony’s eyes widen a fraction, watches as something like hope flares in all its vulnerability. “I remember _everything_. I remember you.” When Tony doesn’t say anything, when he remains frozen with his lower back pressed against the car door, Bucky swallows past the discomfort of his own vulnerability and adds, “I’m stronger and better because of you.”

Tony’s hand _fists_ against the fabric of his chest, right above his chest, shaking his head and sounding delirious and disbelieving, _I can’t, he says, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t do this, I can’t –_

Bucky doesn’t even think twice when he wraps his arms around Tony’s shoulders, when he pulls him off the car door and gives him the strength to remain standing on both of his feet, when he holds him so tight and inhales the familiar warmth and hint to tea tree and musk. Bucky feels the body in his arms sag, feels the renewed grief shake him to the core as Tony comes undone in his arms. He listens to the choking noises that _tears_ past Tony’s throat, feels the heat of his tears against his shoulder. He presses _both_ hands against the quivering and trembling that wracks through Tony’s frame, feels the heat roll off him in waves and no matter how ugly it is, how broken and horrible and heartbreaking the grief feels like in his arms, Bucky cannot stop the relief that shudders through him. There is nothing _strong_ about Tony now, no iron armor keeping him upright and impenetrable.

(You don’t weep and mourn this way for a stranger, and certainly not for someone you hate.)

And when the height of it crashes down around Bucky’s feet, when the silence fills the space between them once more, he presses his lips against Tony’s ear and this time, when he tells him again, _you’re everything_ , he also tells him, _I’ll prove it to you._

Tony doesn’t respond.

Bucky is okay with that.

  
TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay? Nay? DIAF author, you?
> 
> I am not fond of this chapter. But I just wanted to move forward oh my god, I didn't want another re-write FML


	11. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own BETA. I am sure that despite 100 reads, I have missed a lot of DUH-SO-OBVIOUS typos.
> 
> Chapter over 12k to compensate for the last short chap.

 

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”   
― [ **Victor Hugo**](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13661.Victor_Hugo), [ **Les Misérables**](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3208463)

  
Tony thinks it is like Nevada all over again.

It starts with the little things.

Bucky spends four days in the manor, stretching his leave of absence for as long as possible and discussing his recovery with Tony. He asks questions about Extremis, if he’d be able to do the things Tony does when he connects to the network, control machinery with a thought. They spend the first night going over the programming, with Tony breaking down the new version of Extremis to him and how it works, how it had started off with a project to help Rhodey walk again and why Rhodey still uses a leg brace to walk around in public to protect technology that cannot be made public. He tells him that the programming is different from his own and a lot more similar to Rhodey’s, that the primary goal of _this_ version of Extremis is to heal and mend and correct anomalies within the human body.

That same night, Bucky asks him what he can do to help protect Extremis’ existence without hesitation.

(You remember looking at him, completely caught off guard; you also remember feeling your heart hammer under your ribs and something swelling in your throat – you are not able to name the emotion back then, but you remember feeling the whisper of something that may or may not have been trust of some sorts.)

Tony shows him his gauntlet disguised as a wrist watch and watches Bucky activate it, red and metal encasing his fist and wrist, the very same gauntlet Tony had used against him all those years ago before the big showdown in Leipzig, when Bucky had fired a pistol right there into the palm of his gauntlet.

(You remember how _terrified_ you had been in that moment, when the gauntlet had absorbed the shock of the bullet, how you _stared_ at him in a moment of _shock._ )

There is something in the sureness of how Bucky’s now flesh left hand had balled to a fist, how he looked at the said metal encased fist with confidence that makes something in Tony’s chest stutter, and stutter even further when Bucky looks up at him and asks him if he can make it extend all the way up to his shoulder, something that looks a little too much like contained relief and excitement tugging around the corners of Bucky’s eyes, the very same wonder Tony had seen each time he had repaired his arm, had provided him with upgrades, or like that time almost half a year ago when he had to rebuild the arm from scratch.

The wonder and admiration is not fazed; if anything, Tony sees it shine brighter in Bucky’s clear blue gaze, how it softens his face, and like always, Tony isn’t able to look away.

It renders him powerless.

Strange how something so small can look so innocent in the grand scheme of things.

It takes a little over twenty four hours to fabricate just that and when Bucky stands in the middle of his workshop, shirtless and staring at his metal encased arm with the very same wonder that Tony remembers seeing years ago, when he had woken up to stare at his new metal arm after what had felt like an endless operation. Bucky wears the same expression when he looks up at Tony, gratitude and awe and admiration on his face, all that _focus_ is on Tony like he is the sole important existence in the face of the earth; this time it isn’t restrained, not a tick of hesitation is present when the expression just blooms all over Bucky’s face.

(You’re having a hard time breathing in the wake of it and not for the first time.)

This time, Bucky doesn’t bother to measure his words when he compliments Tony, tells him that he’s grateful and that, “You’re one of the best things that’s happened to me.”

Tony remembers how his heart had stuttered then and there, almost to a stop and in all the ways that had felt so _right_ , how the tips of his ears tinged with warmth and what he guesses must be an obvious flush, if the toothy smile Bucky tries to hide by ducking his head and deactivating the arm gauntlet is anything to go by.

They do not fall into bed together, nor do they touch or kiss or press against each other. It is like everything that had happened between them in Washington did not exist. Instead of being drawn to each other like stars colliding, they sit and talk about weapon upgrades, Bucky’s tactical gear and how to go about adjusting it for the new arm. Their conversations take a sharp turn for serious when Bucky suddenly tells him that he’s thinking of using the coded sequence of words in a controlled environment, that he’s thinking of asking Vision to supervise and contain him. He tells Tony that he’s never felt more physically great and that he’s eager to run some tests and see just how thorough Extremis had fixed him up, if this truly is the solution to everything.

Tony remembers nodding mutely, mostly a little dumbfounded at how _easy_ Bucky is throwing all this at him, how there is almost no hesitation. Tony sees none of the lines he remembers seeing in Washington, the kinds that been as sharp as barbwires wrapped tightly around Bucky’s frame, containing him and holding him down when he must have just wanted to burst at the seams. The same barbwire that must have held his tongue back like a prisoner of war. Tony still sees the measured calmness, the calculated and studious look, can see how Bucky strategizes as he converses with Vision through a secure line, throwing suggestions on how to quickly neutralize him and listing Tony, Steve and Bruce as possible candidates to have on standby.

Tony watches _all this_ with something like fascination and a little apprehension.

And that’s when it hits him.

This slightly more relaxed, slightly more _open_ Bucky is not real.

Because he can’t be.

How _can_ he be?

(You’re not used to having things go in your favor, where for once, things that you wish for, long for, even when you are not aware, suddenly present itself before you. You’ve learned at a very young age that just because you want something, or just because you _need_ something, doesn’t mean you will always get it. Your fingers and toes are not enough to count the amount of times this lesson has been reiterated to you. So why, _oh_ _why_ should this be any different? How do you know that this isn’t just another trick of your mind?

How do you know that this is even _real_?)

Tony closes his eyes and stands up from the kitchen stool he had been sitting on, abandoning the breakfast Bucky had prepared, wandering away from the conversation and ignoring how Bucky had paused to regard his retreating back.

It isn’t real.

It _cannot_ be real because it’s too good to be true.

The smell of blood and melting flesh is still in Tony’s nostrils, strong and almost heady in its alien toxicity. Tony closes his eyes and hears the painful cries that had involuntarily ripped past Bucky’s throat, remembers how Steve had bodily pulled him away from that chalky white and bloodied face, how the grief had been undeniably _raw_ on Steve’s face too, that it had changed the man completely. Tony had felt the last breath shudder out of Bucky’s lips, felt how his body had gone heavy as death had settled over his mangled remains. Even now, Tony’s fingers clench into a tight fist to forget the sensation of that dead weight, as he swallows past the thickness welling in his throat, grief creeping around him and swallowing him like winter’s slow crawling mist.

Good things don’t really come to a Stark.

The name may be blessed with genius genes and destinies with shoes far too big for mere mortals, but it his burdened with what feels like a curse.

(You stopped believing a long time ago that there can be _any_ happiness in the house of Stark. And even if there, they don’t always end well, don’t they?)

Tony blinks away the moisture gathering around the corners of his eyes, as he stares at the very thin layer of dust on the lid of the grand piano keys. He looks at his grayish reflection, at the jaunt of his cheekbones and the fatigue around his eyes, the carelessly pushed back hair and slightly sharper lines of his neck and collarbones. He doesn’t recognize himself anymore, in the wake of such a disastrous past five years and all the loss. Tony chuckles mirthlessly at himself, popping the lid open and blowing the light cloud of dust away, thinking that he looks like the paperback novel cliché description of a broken heart.

Bucky’s approaching and close presence is warm like a small fire in the cold of his loss and perceived delusion. Tony doesn’t turn to look as Bucky straddles the piano bench, blue eyes watching as Tony’s thin fingers glide silently over pearly white keys. Tony almost closes his eyes to leech on to that radiating warmth; the loss doesn’t feel any lesser. If anything, it feels bigger and wider and all the more hollow in its emptiness.

“Are you still afraid of me?” Bucky asks, voice soft and laced with the undeniably vulnerable tenor.

“Of you, no.” Tony answers and hears the slow exhale. “Not as much. Or not anymore – I don’t think it matters, either way. I’m more afraid of believing you’re really _here_. When you really aren’t.” Tony brings the heels of his palms against his closed eyelids, slowly applying pressure until he sees stars twinkle in and out of existence behind his lids. “And if you aren’t real, if you’re just the ghost of my conscience, then I’d rather have this form of you than _nothing_ at all.”

“And if I’m real?” Bucky asks, voice soft and hand so, _so_ very warm over the curve of Tony’s shoulder. Tony drags his hands down his face, wiping away the moisture from his eyes and turns to look at Bucky, Bucky who is looking at him with _that_ expression that manages to take Tony’s breath away, lips slightly parted as he sucks in slow and measured breaths, the kind that makes Tony thinks he is the only thing that matters. “If I’m right here?”

Tony _almost_ cracks then, eyebrows knitting as he stares at the face of the man who looks at him like he – Tony fucking Stark – is his entire world. “But what if you’re not?” Tony asks, and this time, when the word tumbles out _broken_ , because it goes unsaid, how he can’t, he just _can’t_ take it anymore. Tony doesn’t know _where_ he is going to scrape the strength to even wait for another sunrise if none of this turns out to be real.

“ _But what if I_ _am_?” Bucky insists, words firm and warm hands coming up to press against Tony’s cheek.

Tony closes his eyes when Bucky repeats the question, softer, words but a breath against his lips when he feels the warmth of Bucky’s forehead press against his, both hands that feel as calming as the summer sun pressing against one side of his face and the other against his neck.

(What if he is?)

Tony thinks back to their exchange what feels like a lifetime ago, when all _this_ had started.

(What if he is?)

“If all this goes to hell in a handbasket,” Tony murmurs, peeling wet lashes open and drowning in cool blues. “then it is my fault.”

The smile that tugs on Bucky’s lips is so, _so_ wide and toothy and warm and so incredibly _beautiful_ that Tony forgets to breathe in the wake of it.

“Just as much as it will be mine.” Bucky says; it’s the same promise. “Deal?”

Tony swallows and wonders if he’s signing his deal with death, even when something that feels like a warm blanket settles over the broken pieces of his heart, “Deal.”

\--

  
Bucky is staring at his hands, stunned to shocked silence just as much as the rest of the room.

Across from him, within the confines of the reinforced and blacked out secure training room, Vision is floating with what looks like a ghost of a smile on his lips. Standing a few feet beyond him is Steve remaining on guard, fists tight on his side and shield ready to come up if need be. Bruce’s voice crackles over the speaker from where he is waiting in containment beyond the enforced doors on Bucky’s left.

“Guys? Uh – is everything okay? Should I come in now?” Bruce sounds tentative, like he’s unsure.

And he had every right to be.

Bucky had seen the scans of his brain prior to this particular experiment and he had looked over it with Bruce repeatedly, over and over again, comparing it to his old scans, magnifying it to not miss anything, double checking; Bucky had gone as far as asking Bruce to repeat the scans on a different machine. They reach the same conclusion: the fine scarring on Bucky’s brain tissues had vanished, and there had been no signs of negative brain activity. There also had been no sign of the chip that had been implanted years ago.

So Bucky doesn’t know what to make of the fact that he can hear the words, that the Russian language no longer comes out as slightly hushed static in his ears, that despite Vision running the same coded word sequence once, twice and thrice, over and over again as Bucky _demands_ , and at some point, Bucky _begs_ , nothing happens. There is no pull coming from the back of his mind, there is no tension swelling from the depths of his thoughts, no veil coming over his eyes. His body doesn’t slack in compliancy, there is no attentiveness waiting for his next command; there is _nothing_.

The coded sequence does _nothing_ : Furnace. Benign. Rusted. One. Daybreak. Nine. Longing. Seventeen. Homecoming. Freight-car.

Bucky shakes his head as disbelief and then denial takes control of him, and he asks Vision to repeat it again. And again. And again and again, until he sounds like a broken record on loop.

Nothing happens.

And Vision continues to indulge him without question, a glimmer of something in his blue gaze.

It is Steve’s hand on his shoulder that makes him look up with moisture around the corners of his eyes, the entire ocean of his life threatening to just spill over. It is Steve’s smile that is _so_ wide, so _happy_ , and so goddamn _relieved_ that it shatters the dam inside Bucky’s chest and leaves Bucky with his head ducked and forehead pressing against the shoulder of oldest friend, his own relief coming out in choked sobs that _tears_ itself past Bucky’s throat with a vengeance and the severity of a little lost boy.

Bucky can count very few moments in his life since he’s been liberated from Hydra where he had truly felt comfortable in his own skin; that moment when Steve had wrapped his arms around his shoulders, a hand patting him in the middle of his back and rubbing circles had been one of them.

The next one comes that night when he sits in the privacy of his own room, his cellphone in his hands as the call waits to connect. It takes a full minute before Tony picks up, but when he does, Bucky can do nothing about the thickness of his voice, can do nothing but press a hand to his forehead and scrunch his eyes shut as the words tumble past his lips, coated thickly and wetly with salt and relief that feels so foreign.

“The words don’t work.” Bucky murmurs, and hears Tony’s breath pause from the other end. “We tried it today. It doesn’t work anymore, Tony…” Tony doesn’t answer for a long while, and in the space of him trying to find words, Bucky lets out a shuddering breath and smiles shakily to himself. “You fixed me up real good.”

“James…”

“ _You_ fixed _me_.” Bucky repeats and with it comes a large wedge that feels too big that it gets stuck in his throat. Bucky cannot stop the sound that leaves his throat involuntarily when he tries to swallow, feeling too much like an open nerve, too exposed, too vulnerable, because despite it all, he had hoped and dreamed to be truly okay one day. But something had always held him back; a part of him had always warned him to be cautious about getting far _too_ comfortable.

Hope had been something he _needed_.

But had not been something he wanted to fully embrace.

(You were scared.)

“God, James…” Tony says in a way that Bucky knows that Tony is having a hard time believing what he’s hearing.

Bucky can almost see him now, probably sitting wherever he is, fingers shaking and a stunned gaze on his face. Tony’s lips would be parted, drying with each breath he slowly sucks in, pupils blow wide with a ring of amber around it. Just the memory of it, the sheer unguardedness of Tony’s words is enough to make Bucky’s lips pull back into a brief and gasping smile only to be followed by a different noise that sounds too wounded pushing past his lips without his control that Bucky brings his flesh left hand to clamp against his mouth sharply. The shock of it, how it comes out unbidden is enough and before Bucky realizes it, he’s biting down against his fist as he tries to  muffle the _sobs_ that just shakes itself out of him, equally unguarded as Tony’s voice and breathlessness at the end of the line.

And through all the wetness and clogging nose, through the tightness in Bucky’s chest that makes it so hard for him to breathe, the knots in his stomach that makes him feel so sick with relief, he talks. He tells Tony everything in stuttering and breaking syllables, words barely coherent that he’s unsure if Tony even _understands_ half of what he says. He tells Tony how after several attempts, they had measured the effectivity of Extremis in his body, how his reflexes responds better, how the bruises fade just a touch faster than before.

Bucky tells him _everything_ , and he can’t stop.

He can’t stop talking about the brain scans, the tests Bruce runs, the comparisons. He tells him that he still dreams of his sins, of how he still see the faces of his victims when he sleeps. He tells Tony he’s never going to stop working on it, he’s never going to stop getting help and adapting healthier coping mechanisms, exploring avenues to deal with everything he’s gone through, that just because the words don’t work anymore, doesn’t mean Bucky is going to stop trying to make it right.

He promises Tony that he’s never going to stop trying.

(Because Tony never stopped; you swear to yourself you wouldn’t too.)

Tony listens and says nothing. He doesn’t end the call, nor does he ask Bucky to stop. He doesn’t make excuses to leave or attend to other things.

Tony just _listens_.

And continues to listen even long after Bucky’s breaths had calmed down and his sentences are more comprehensible.

Bucky cannot even feel embarrassed at how the front of his shirt is wet and sticky, how his head _pounds_ with a headache from the hour long worth of crying.

(When was the last time you even cried like this?)

“Aer you coming by DC?” Bucky asks, when the silence between feels about as right as the dawn lingering over the horizon.

“I’m not sure.” Tony says, and Bucky hears the thickness in his voice too, how the three syllables of that short answer trembles. Tony’s breathing is slow and measured, and when Tony sniffs, Bucky can almost see the tears Tony tries to contain.

“Will you let me know?” Bucky asks, soft, and wondering.

“ _Yes_ ,” Tony says, after a long while and if Bucky squints hard, he can almost hear the boyish shyness in that one word. “Yes, I will…”

Bucky thinks he is the luckiest man on earth

\--

The call haunts Tony like a shadow, further fuelling his guilt when his trip to DC keeps getting delayed. He finds little to _no_ time between returning to his duty as SHIELD’s director and delving back into Stark Industries business. All, if any, DC trips along the way with countless others are delegated and broken down to Coulson or Hill or someone else other than himself and Tony _almost_ loses his temper one day when the realization hits him that he is never going to find time.

The exhaustion does not feel as heavy as it once had been and Tony keys it to the fact that he’s been limiting his use of Extremis.

It does not, however, get rid of the feeling of having an entire ocean in his mind, or the sometimes telltale haunting scent of lilies that lingers in the air when he’s too tired to keep his eyes open. Tony knows he’ll never recover from everything that has happened since his parents’ death; that he’ll still feel and taste the sands of Afghanistan under his knees and the back of his throat. He knows he’ll never forget the sound of Ultron’s voice, how sometimes he thinks he still sees his shadow lingering in the corners of his eyes, or his presence looming over his shoulder. There had been nights when Tony thinks he catches a reflection of ruby red eyes glimmering in the glass reflection of his office, and those nights are always the worst. Those are the nights where Tony drinks a little more than he should and have weaker hold on his temper. On those nights, the shaking never leaves him.

(On those nights, you think of your brief time in Bucky’s arms a little too much; on those nights, you find the courage amidst all your fear to admit to yourself how much you _miss_ him.)

Tony knows he’ll never forget the feeling of Obie’s hands plucking the arc reactor from his chest, nor will he ever forget the feeling of Captain America’s shield coming down upon his chest, or the feel of the Winter Soldier’s fist _digging_ into chest to _rip_ the source of his power out. Just as much as he’ll never forget the sight of Rhodey falling lifelessly from the sky, or how he’d forget the haunted look that would cross Rhodey’s unguarded face when his limbs had been too tired to push himself off the ground during his rehabilitation exercises. Or how Pepper’s face had contorted to _fear_ when her hand had slipped from Tony’s grasp and she had fallen down below to the fiery pits of her death. Tony will never forget how trust had been severed like chains breaking when Steve had looked him in the eyes and said that one yes.

(They will always be a part of you.)

Tony knows he’ll be far from okay, that he’ll never _be_ truly okay.

It is ironic that earth’s mightiest saviors are almost always broken, some in more ways more than others. If Tony is being honest, he knows he doesn’t have much left to break, that whatever remains barely makes a handful in a child’s hand.

But he _tries_ anyway.

He tries because Pepper, Happy and Stark Industries looks up at him with hope glimmering like stars in the depths of their irises. He tries again and again, because SHIELD looks up to him with a sense of purpose; it’s there in the lingering ghost of smile at the corners of Coulson’s lips and the tiniest gleam in Fury’s dark eye. He keeps trying because the world tries, and individuals like Peter Parker and others like him do too. He tries because Rhodey tries, because Vision and Clint and Natasha and Steve – god, how Steve _tries_ despite the wake of his decision and the continuous clashing disaster of the Rebels and World Security Council.

He tries because the Winter Soldier tries, too.

(You try because you’re James’ _everything_.)

“Renders are complete, boss.” Friday says, startling Tony awake from his light doze. “Boss? Boss, you will have to forgive my insistence. You have given me strict orders to keep you awake at all costs. While I think it is terrible idea, shall I ask Joanna to bring you two additional espresso shots?” Friday asks, head tilting to one side, blinking at him in all her physically projected form glory.

“Make that four shots. Donuts are good too.” Tony adds, rubbing sleep from his eyes and reaching up to loosen his tie a little further.

Friday turns back to the rendering schematics. “Confirmed. Joana will be back in fifteen minutes. Oh, Agent Coulson and his party has just entered the building. He’s in time for your eleven o’clock quarterly meeting with the Accords’ representatives. Miss Pots is also on the line. Shall I patch her through?”

“Yup.” Tony says, twisting the cap off a water bottle to break the seal and draining half its contents in one gulp. Pepper’s face pops up in a projected screen before, following him as he swivels his chair a little bit to the right so that he’s facing the schematics Friday is working on. “Sup’ Pep!”

“Tony, you’re still wearing the same shirt as yesterday! You promised to go home!”

Tony takes a moment to admire the slight indignant flush gracing Pepper’s face before he shrugs. “I tried.”

“Really?”

“Friday, didn’t I try?” Tony calls out.

“He did, Miss Pots. Unfortunately, he was called back before he made it to the lobby.” Friday confirms.

“See?” Tony raises both his hands up helplessly. “I tried. Before we go back to remind me that I need to take some time off, how was Singapore? Success? Medium success? Extra-large success?”

The conversation steers off to the merger Pepper has been running after for the past three months and Tony is _relieved_ when Pepper holds up the signed contract with the widest and most beautiful smile tugging at her features. It had been quite a stubborn contract to chase after and Tony can see the relief lining Pepper’s face along with the glee glimmering in the depths of green eyes at the new reach and possibilities. It is so infectious that Tony cannot stop his lips from pulling back just as cheekily.

“I would say it’s a double extra-large success, don’t you think?” Pepper concludes, after running Tony by next steps Stark Industries teams will be taking.

“Sounds like it.” Tony says, and lets out a soft exhale, pausing in his conversation when Joana brings in his donuts and coffee. He is halfway through the first donut like a starve man when he catches sight of Pepper watching him fondly. “What?” He asks, cheeks pupped and licking the powdered sugar off the corner of hi slips.

“I have made arrangements to ensure that your schedule with Stark Industries is completely _cleared_ for the next two months. We can teleconference if necessary --” Pepper says suddenly.

“What – _why_? Stark Expo is _just_ around corner –“

“Which will be up and running and ready for you to perform and knock some socks off. Tony, you need to do _you_. Just _you_. I can’t do anything about SHIELD, but we can hold the fort here at Stark Industries for a while.”

“You know, I remember days when you had _frowned_ at me wanting to go party!” Tony says, indignant but without bite.

“Consider this a free pass to party and party wild.” Pepper says, the smile soft on her lips. “When was the last time you had taken a holiday, Tony?”

Tony falls silent, staring at the black swirl of his espresso. He can’t honestly recall the last time he had fucked off and lost his mind in something other than Stark Industries, the Accords or SHIELD.

It’s been _years_.

“Hey, I was in Amsterdam just last month. That’s kind of a holiday.” Tony flounders for an excuse, even as he closes his eyes as he drains the remains of his cup. The truth is, he can’t even remember the last time he had been on a holiday.

“A fuel stop for your jet is not a holiday. Consider this my late birthday gift to you. We haven’t even had the chance to celebrate that in a while. Not even a dinner and that’s – that’s not right, Tony.” Pepper’s voice is very soft and thick as she clears he throat and swallows past the emotion that she blinks away from her gaze. “Take the holiday. _Please_. Even for just a short while.”

“I can’t make promises.” Tony says, and gives Pepper a small smile. “Love you, Pep. I hope you know that.”

Tony knows that she does when he sees it reflected in her eyes, too. “Will that be all Mister Stark?”

“That’ll be all Miss Potts.” Tony answers and basks in the warmth in his chest for just a moment longer as the call ends and Friday announces Coulson’s arrival and that he’s waiting outside. “Send him in.” Tony says, and drains the rest of his espressos as well as the remnants of his water bottle, before he stands and straightens his tie.

“Director Stark,” Coulson greets, stepping into the room, just as Tony unrolls his left sleeve and tugs his suit jacket on. “Security Council’s Team is waiting in the boardroom. Are you ready?”

“Let’s get this ball rolling.” Tony buttons up his suit and follows Phil out of his office towards the elevator.

“If all goes well today, I think we can free you up for the next month or so.” Phil says, hands crossed in front of him as they stand in the elevator and descent to the boardroom.

“Scheming with Pepper behind my back is considered insubordination, Phil. I’m going to have to mention this to HR and take severe actions. An incident report might be filed.” Tony says, with an equally straight face. He should have known that Pepper isn’t beyond calling ‘Agent Phil’ and voicing her concerns, whether it works or not. They are good friends, after all.

“Consider it for the benefit of SHIELD’s integrity and safety.” Phil returns.

“I am actually _hurt_.” Tony says, but without bite or truth to it.

Phil’s hand is on the door and there is a brief pause. “Tony,” Phil says, looking up at him. “Just take the break.”

Tony holds Phil’s gaze for a while, watches the lines age his face and what eerily looks like gentle fondness tugging at the corners of his lips. It’s a disarming look and Tony tells himself agents of SHIELD get trainings for things and expressions like _these_. It’s damn good training because he almost buys it.

“It’ll depend on how this meeting goes, Phil. You know that.” Tony says, serious.

“It’ll work out.” Phil isn’t even restraining his smile anymore and it takes years off his face. “You’ll see.”

“Ever so confident, aren’t you, Agent?” Tony says with an exasperated sigh as Phil pushes the door open.

“Always, Director Stark.” Phil says, as he steps in and greets the group of people in the room.

Tony suddenly understands within seconds why Phil had sounded _so_ sure.

Standing in the oval room with the morning skyline of New York reflecting on the polished glass and wood is Everett, Natasha, an aide that Tony recognizes from their last quarterly meeting that goes by the name of Nyongo, and two others who introduces themselves as Yang from Litigation and Joshua from Public Relations. Tony isn’t looking at them though, because his eyes are zeroed in on the man turning away from the New York skyline, hair tripped and up in a neat tight knot, dressed just as formerly as the rest of the people gathered in the office, in all black and crisp white and no tie, his silver fist catching the summer light.

And Bucky is looking right at him, the corner of his lips tugging upwards just the tiniest bit.

Tony knows he looks stunned.

“I know you ride on a tight schedule, Director.” Natasha says, a barely contained smirk on her nude tainted lips.

“We won’t take much of your time.” Everett is unbuttoning his suit jacket and taking a seat, as the rest of the team settles and starts handing out paperwork.

Tony listens to everything with half an ear, responding when need be and pointing out minor changes; after the catastrophic aftermaths of terrorist attacks that had taken the world by storm, SHIELD and the Accords had cooperated and worked side by side in trying to neutralize the threat. Their quarterly meetings are a mere legality and just a measure of security to ensure that both bodies aren’t stepping on each other’s toes. The meetings are mostly a façade but one that is necessary; the United States, after all, is one of the active members of Accords and one of the first few signatures. Tony knows that there are similar ‘cooperative agreements’ drafted with other countries’ armies and security organizations like SHIELD. Tony would not even be a part of this meeting if his signature on a few documents had not been necessary.

The meeting takes no more than thirty minutes; thirty minutes of Tony staring across the table at James Buchanan Barnes, thirty minutes of watching that smirk soften to something that looks a little unguarded in those brief moments when Coulson’s attention had been elsewhere.

“Well, Director Stark, I think we have everything in order.” Yang says as she and Joshua go over the documents once more before packing them away. “Agent Coulson will be accompanying us to DC, am I right?”

“I will be.” Coulson confirms, as they all begin to stand from the table.

“And if it isn’t already obvious,” Natasha says, “Sergeant Barnes will be the appointed liaison between SHIELD and the Accords for this fiscal year.”

Tony blinks at that, genuinely surprised and only manages a very unintelligent sounding, ‘Sergeant?”

“The United States Army has reinstated his title.” Everett says, a smile on his lips as he rocks on his heels.

“I am being posted here in New York for handover-training purposes.” Bucky says, just he buttons his suit jacket and holds his hands behind his back in a resting stance. “I’m looking forward working with you, Director Stark.”

Tony can only _nod_ , the surprise clear on his face.

Coulson clearing his throat breaks the spell and Tony looks away momentarily as Natasha and Everett engages him in small talk before they all leave with Coulson. Coulson gives Tony a pointed a I-told-you-so look, reminds him of their discussion prior to the meeting before Tony is left in the boardroom with one Sergeant Barnes, standing there like a decorative piece and breaking the monotony of the suddenly too quiet room when he shifts and shoves his hands into his pockets. Tony’s phones vibrates briefly and when he looks, it’s a message from Natasha:

**_He volunteered  ; )_ **

Tony thinks back to one particular Christmas that feels like a lifetime ago and says, “Well, look at you, looking all sharp and _nice_ on your first day in office. You clean up quite well, Sergeant Barnes. Loving the man-bun.”

Bucky doesn’t respond immediately but Tony feels his eyes roam all over him, regarding him from top to bottom. Tony knows he doesn’t look any different from the last time Bucky had seen him. He is still trying to recover from all the muscle-mass loss he had suffered from during his coma, and while Tony looks as impeccable as one can with an expensive if not slightly disheveled trendy haircut, not as pristine suit and perfectly groomed face and nails, the cover does nothing to truly hide the exhaustion that sits like a heavy backpack on Tony’s shoulders. Nor does it do anything to get rid of the puffiness around his eyes and slightly bloodshot color in his eyes from having no rest at all for almost forty eight hours.

Tony knows Bucky is staring at all the hidden imperfections, beyond the money and glamour, and the rosy tint of his glasses. It is there at the slight pinch between his eyebrows.

“You don’t look so shabby yourself,” Bucky answers, responding the same way he had all those years ago.

“I couldn’t make it to DC.” Tony says, and looks away, clearing his throat and feeling the shame hit him like a collapsing pile of bricks. “I mean, I meant to?”

“That’s why I’m here.”  Bucky says, cutting off the string of excuses that wants to roll past Tony’s tongue. There is a bit of a smile curving around the corners of Bucky’s lip that’s doing a thousand things to Tony’s heart and making it swell like a giant balloon.

The pause that follows and falls between them is about as big as the balloon in Tony’s chest.

“You’re no politician, James” Tony says, with no intention to demean. He doesn’t think this will be a good fit for Bucky, doesn’t even think he’s worth being exposed to the horrid gray world of politics where things are never _ever_ simple.

“Not my style, either. I’m a soldier through and through. Wouldn’t know how to be anything else.” Bucky shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I can’t try anything new. It’s one fiscal year. And if I suck that bad, they can replace me. How hard can it be? Besides, I get to spend more time with you, don’t I? Get to see more of _your_ world?” Bucky asks, and pauses for just a beat before adding, “I’m your man.”

Tony knows it’s the almost-smirk dancing in and out of sight, like a mirage in the desert that’s making the heat rise up the length of his neck, gathering around the tips of his ears. Tony knows that he is well past the age of feeling _bashful_ – of _all_ fucking things – and that the double entendre does not go over his head. He cannot stop the slightly surprised laugh from tearing past his throat, which does wonders to making the smirk fully bloom – and quite _smugly_ – all over Bucky’s face.

“Jesus, Barnes. You really need to work on your lines.”

“is it working?” Bucky asks, teeth peeking out from between lips and for just another second, Tony feels his heart lurch, like a car going over a sudden and unseen speed bump.

“Seriously, so full of yourself, you should be subjected to training –“

Tony doesn’t get too far with elaborating because Friday materialises and announces that the handover team is waiting for Bucky’s presence in one of the lower floors. Bucky thanks Friday, who disappears as quickly as she came and clears his throat.

“Better get going.” Bucky says, and walks around the long table, coming to a stop just beside Tony, warm flesh fingers reaching up to brush against the tip of Tony’s still hot and very much flushed left ear. It’s barely even a full touch, and something that feels like a brush of butterfly wings. It does is job of breaking goosebumps all over Tony’s skin. “My lines work just _fine,_ by the way.”

And it is the most refreshing feeling to feel just the slightest glimmer of _excitement_ bloom warmly somewhere in the center of Tony’s chest.

“Smug bastard.” Tony responds and doesn’t bother denying it.

(It did work, you pathetic school boy. What are you, ten?)

The smile Bucky gives him before he leaves the conference room though is one that would keep Tony warm on the long nights to follow.

\--

Tony remembers loving going on holidays. Hell, he remembers throwing some of the most exclusive house and yacht parties when he had gone on holidays. He had been the top of his game for _years_ that there had been a time where he, Sean Combs, the Kardashians, Miley Cyrus and Beyoncé had gone head to head on who is able to host the most happening party of the year.

The problem with having to do so _much_ , or when you use work as a coping mechanism, when all that suddenly comes to a skidding stop and things are seemingly _okay_ enough for you to pause, your forget how to be _you._

Tony remembers going home.

He remembers taking a shower and falling asleep, waking up sometime the next day with the sun setting over the horizon, the entire manor bathed in orange and darkening purple hues. He remembers getting up and checking his messages and finding _none_.

Coulson and Pepper had taken their tasks for clearing his schedule far _too_ seriously.

He remembers ordering in for the night, remembers eating on the couch by himself with Dummy doing his evening routine dusting in the background as Tony allows the jokes from the stand up comedies he had queued up to fill the dauntingly empty house. Tony also remembers falling asleep on the couch and waking up with a slight jerk, goosebumps breaking all over his skin and the taste of blood and sand somewhere in the back of his throat, the feeling of cold metal fingers lingering against chest and arms, like an unwanted caress.

It gets a little harder to sleep after that and with no messages or reports or anything _demanding_ his attention, Tony heads to the workshop and brews a potful of coffee, eyes going through the tidy workshop, kept and maintained by his beloved bots. From the top of his head, Tony can think of a few projects to start for Stark Industries, or work on advancing some of their existing product prototypes. The itch to _work_ hits him like an ice bucket and he knows that he’d get flack for _working_ when he shouldn’t be.

The urge and itch hits him about ten times in the space of the five minutes he waits by the coffee pot.

His gaze falls on the far too long ignored 1967 Shelby parked on the far end of the workshop. He remembers buying it on a whim when he had found the body and severely crushed engine for sale online. Poor thing had been in an accident somewhere in Europe some time ago, the engine completely totaled and unsalvageable. Tony didn’t even think twice about purchasing the scraps, the piss-poor job of trying to restore its body going over his head. He had bought it because he had a soft spot for that particular Mustang make. Tony looks at it for a long time, his mind slowly turning on how he’d want to build it from the ground up.

Tony wonders if he can do better than the still favored V8 engine in the market, because he wants to make sure that old and rusty GT500 before him gets all the power it deserves.

“Friday? Chances of fitting that beauty with 900 horsepower is…?”

“Possible. You had previously made an order list for the Shelby GT500.” Friday pulls up a screen and Tony finds himself staring at a list of things he had put together to customize the car for flight capabilities. He does not have _any_ recollection of doing this. “Shall I go ahead and order it? Expedited shipping?”

“Let’s stick to classics. No flights. What was I thinking?” Tony starts flicking off things he doesn’t need from the list.

“You were intoxicated at the time, boss.”

Tony snorts, “Well, that explains the flying car. There’s no need to douche up a beauty.”

“900 horsepower isn’t douching it up?” Friday asks.

“Well, what’s under the hood is just between you and me, hmm? Classy on the outside, beast from within. Tell you what, make that 1000. Let’s set the bar higher. There’s room for ambition.”

“Of course, boss.” Friday chirrups and begins ordering what Tony needs as he starts to review the schematics of his drunk-design. “We’re still going with candy-apple red and white stripes on the paint-job?”

Tony pauses and looks at the car once more, thinking of its old curves, and its once upon time suave charm. He imagines Shelby would have personified the cheesy lines that may have worked back in the forties or fifties, delivered in all the right tenors and the purr of her engine. If Shelby had to be moved to the future, if Shelby had to _adapt_ to the future, Tony would like to think that Shelby wouldn’t necessarily get a full on facelift per se, or at least not enough to change who she really is. Tony thinks of smooth and cool black leather and a digitized windshield. He thinks of sensors and voice control while still keeping the key ignition because it’s not a car without keys. He thinks power and strength from the inside and under the boot, brandished and new strength from the turbo engine with just whisper of the old from the inside, like the gear handle and maybe the dials. He thinks of old fashioned charm, thinks of how this one is worn and ragged with the decades that had passed, severely broken from misuse and maltreatment, but _fixable, not hopeless_ , a car out of its time, indeed.

Out of its time but _adapted_.

(I’m stronger and better because of you.)

Tony smiles at himself as he ducks his head, chewing on his lower lip, something fluttering in his chest when he realizes just _who_ he is thinking of.

“Ditch the 67 colors. Let’s bring her to the future. Order Shadow black.” Tony says.

Connecting to the network comes with ease, as Tony reclines in his chair and starts designing the engine, interior and small custom pieces for the body.

It is a few hours later when Tony stops working and leave Friday to continue rendering his designs for him. He is in the middle of pouring himself another warm cup of coffee when Friday fills the space of the workshop with Tony’s customized design.

“I’d say it’s one of the better customizations made yet.” Friday says, “It’d fetch a good amount of zeroes during a bid. Considering you’ve given it a facelift, are you giving it an added name?”

“Let’s put an S at the end of the GT500.” Tony murmurs, picking up his mug and padding for the exit.

“An S, boss?”

“Soldier. GT500 Soldier. Doesn’t so cheesy, does it?” Tony asks.

Friday’s tone is smooth and almost knowing. “Sounds very progressive.”

\--

Tony spends the next two weeks taking his sweet time in building his car, starting with the engine and then working his way out. He goes as far as converting a part of his workshop as a painting cabin and paints the car himself. Throughout the entire process, Tony remembers what it feels like to work with his hands. He realizes it a little into the second week how much he misses doing just this; tinkering with wires, soldering together metal and chips and machinery, putting together an engine strong enough to carry the weight of a muscle car and still push out maximum speed. He remembers what it feels like to lose sleep while he is on a binge for _himself_. He remembers the familiar feeling of fatigue that lines the length of his arms from lifting and assembling, or from being hunched over delicate wiring for hours on end. He remembers the feel of oil and grease between his fingers and the warm swell of pride when he’s completed what he has built.

By the time the engine had been installed and his car is painted, the customized chairs, and parts of the interior gets delivered. It takes another day to add the small and final touches and then a few hours of careful polishing that he leaves to the bots to do.

Tony had meant to take a shower.

And he thinks he makes it far enough to pull clean clothes on.

He jerks awake when the shrill of his phone ringing continuously cuts through the haze of sleep, and for a moment, Tony feels the world careen to the left a little too quickly. It’s only then that he realizes he had fallen asleep halfway through a box of pizza on the kitchen island, and that the stool he is on is starting to move.

A quick grab for the corner rights him back in position and he picks up the phone and croaks, “I’m on vacation.”

“Oh good. That means you have no excuse to miss my Fourth of July barbeque.” Rhodey quips, managing to sound cheerful and dry all at the same time.

“Huh?” Tony thinks it’s an intelligent question.

“You know, Fourth of July? That’s next week? Barbeque? Burgers? Hotdogs? Potato salad? Mac and cheese? Corn on the cob, baked beans, chips and pretzels? Pie and trifle? Cool Aid –“

“Really, Carebear. I know what a Fourth of July barbeque _means_.” Tony grouches.

“It’s Liana’s first Fourth of July.” Rhodey says.

And it’s all Rhodey apparently needs to say because Tony is reaching up and scrubbing a hand down his face, getting up from the kitchen and heading into the workshop. He knows he’s _not_ going to miss it, not after that kind of reasoning. He had no excuse to bail.

(Not that you would to begin with, but yes, go ahead and pretend that you have better things to do than attend a friends and family barbeque.)

“Do I bring something?” Tony mutters grudgingly, and the laugh that comes from the other end is loud and warm.

“Just make sure your ass is there. And don’t be too late. We’re doing lunch, so…” Rhodey tapers off and there is loud shrill at the other end of the line. “She dropped her unicorn, hold on a second.” Tony is subjected to a myriad of noises from the other end before Rhodey comes back, sounding a touch breathless. “Gang’s gonna be here.”

“Gang?”

“You know, the usual. Except for Lang. Clint is gonna be late.” Rhodey says.

“Steve gonna be there?” Tony asks, off-hand, casual; the fourth of July is a little more personal to those that know Steve.

“He said he’d be. You have no excuse to be late.”

“Might be.” Tony says, lights coming on as he steps into the workshop and looks at the almost done and very much gleaming slick black and silver car. “I’ll drive up. Let me know if you need anything on the way.”

“Drive?”

“Hey, I’m on vacation, remember?”

And it had be one of the most amazing drives Tony has done in a while.

(You might just be in love.)

It takes hours to get to DC but dressed down in jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt, cool summer winds from the rolled down windows brushing against his cheek and the hum of the magnificent engine music to his ears, Tony is proud to say that his engine had surpassed his initial goal of a 1000 horsepower. The tires scorches down the asphalt as 1200 horsepower cuts through the distance between New York and Washington DC. Tony doesn’t care how many speeding tickets he accumulates during the drive; it would be a sin to not draw out the car’s full all American-muscle potential.

He picks up a few cases of beer on the way and it is a little close to three in the afternoon when he parks the car in the packed driveway and hauls the cases out of his car, cutting through green grass towards the backyard of the Rhodes-Danvers household. The smell of barbeque is still sharp, smoke rising up to the clear blue skies, red, blue and white garlands decorating the manicured lawn. Wooden benches and red checkered clothed tables lines one side of the yard. There is a cold drink station where Tony spots the cooler of beer and sweet tea in a large glass dispenser, completed with the floating sliced lemons, There is a stand holding cupcakes in red, blue and white frosting, Overhead, little white lights hang for what Tony assumes is for the evening. There are tray-baskets of burger buns and sausage buns, bowls of what looked like salads and a serving dish of what Tony _hopes_ – really, really _hopes_ – is Rhodey’s infamous mac and cheese. All around the yard, fans had been erected so while the summer heat hangs above, the yard is quite cool and comfortable.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey~” Clint calls out as Tony pokes his head from around the corner of the house and steps in to the backyard. “Look who made it!”

“Mister Stark!” Peter says, and is on his feet and taking the cases of beer off his hands.

“What did I miss?” Tony asks, as Carol comes to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, easily shoving Liana into his arms. “Hey, baby-girl.”

He gets a loud explosive giggle and a hug and a kiss on his cheek for his efforts.

Tony feels himself _blush_ at the affection; he’s never going to get used to _that_.

Tony is bamboozled by greetings and hugs, kisses and handshakes. He is surprised to see Clint present so _early_ , well on his way on being a touch tipsy. He doesn’t ask _why_ when Tony knows exactly why Clint is early. He sees Sam and Bruce, dressed down in shorts and denims and t-shirts, nursing hotdogs and playing a game of chess. Tony even spots Helen Chou chatting away animatedly with Aunt May, both of whom waves at him with a smile. Tony is halfway through his greeting with some of the more familiar faces of SHIELD, the military and the Accords – Hill, Coulson, Everett – when the next handshake is long and warm and there is Steve, smiling so widely at him with a flush on his cheeks, an apron hanging over him and spatula tucked into the front pocket, smears of barbeque sauce all over the fabric.

“Glad you can make it, Tony.” Steve says.

“Happy Birthday, old man.” Tony says, and watches with a little amusement how Steve _colors_ at the statement, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck bashfully. It’s ridiculously adorable, and stupidly charming.

“Thanks,” Steve says. “Hey uh, you hungry? Got a batch that should be done about now.”

“Starving.” Tony says, following Steve across the lawn towards the barbeque where Bucky is holding a pair of tongs and turning some of the hotdogs on the grill. Tony feels his mouth go a little _dry_ at the sight of Bucky _not_ in a suit; Bucky looks up from under the shadow of his baseball cap, dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans, donning a matching apron like Steve’s. “Oh hey, juicy All-American beef beauty – hit me up with that, would you?”

“Baby in the area.” Rhodey says warningly, setting down a tray of freshly pressed burgers to place on the grill.

“Sorry,” Bucky shrugs, without a beat. “Patties ain’t ready. But I got a juicy All-American sausage ready that I’m sure your mouth would love better.”

“Dude, _really!”_ Rhodey is throwing both arms in the air just as Steve reaches forward to cover Liana’s ears with both his hands.

Tony _laughs._

And starts his very late lunch with a hotdog.

\--

Bucky can barely recall the last time he had been part of a barbeque. His memories from childhood are grainy at best, and he remembers more of the hunger and poverty rather than celebration, despite his families’ best efforts. He sits there, long after the barbeque had been cleaned up and the starts had dotted the sky, after having freshened up and changed, nursing a bottle of beer thinking of how, as a child, he and Steve had snuck out during evenings much like this one, heading all the way to Coney Island, stealing hotdogs off a cart. He remembers running and Steve tripping, remembers getting yelled at and being called a punk. He remembers how they’d run down several blocks and hide behind the dumpsters, crouched under the shadows and trying not to giggle and laugh, with Steve trying to do both around his excited wheezing. They would hunch over their stolen treats and devour them before they get caught.

He remembers the mustard tasting too sour and wishing he had been able to add more ketchup.

Bucky even remembers the year he had even managed to snag a sweetened pretzel from one of the stands. It had been the only year they had managed ‘desert’ after their hotdogs.

 “Food for your thought?” Steve asks, joining him on the bench, both their long legs spread out against the grass.

“We used to steal hot dogs. I always forget to add ketchup on mine. You were fond of the relish.” Bucky says, bringing up bottle to his lips and taking a sip from his beer.

Steve laughs, nostalgic and a faraway look in his eyes that he directs to the stars above. “I remember Ma’ grilling me about the stains on my shirt every year. And that one time where I scuffed my knee pretty bad and tore up my pants. We tried so hard to not get caught going out.”

“Got caught anyway.” Bucky hums, affectionate and fond. “They were hard days. But good ones.”

“Hot dogs got better, though.” Steve points out, to which Bucky hums wholeheartedly in agreement.

“Oh definitely. Mustard too.”

They sit in silence for a long while, watching their friends from across lawn play Sing-Down. They watch as Bruce attempts to sing, sounding a little off key. Clint and Rhodey are both strumming a guitar, both of them donning plastic cowboy hats on their heads. Laughter erupts when Peter cracks a joke and Bruce flushes a touch shyly, and really, in the middle of it all, Bucky is drawn to only one person. Tony is leaning into his beanbag, elbow keeping himself propped up, head throwing back in laughter when Rhodey starts to sing something that sounds like Country music. Bucky watches the lines disappear off Tony’s face, how his shoulder quake and his throat rumble with his laughter. He watches how his teeth peek out between his lips when he keens as he laughs, watches how long fingers come together when Tony claps. And really, Bucky thinks it’s a little over the top to think that he’s looking at the most beautiful thing in the world.

(But ain’t that the truth, soldier.)

The game disperses with a loud guffaw, guitars put away and music filling the lawn. Exaggeratedly, Rhodey asks Carol for a dance and spins her out to the middle of the lawn under the glow of the hanging lights. Peter follows with May, and others join in too, attempting to match the fast pace of the fox trot blowing out of the speakers and failing. The music moves through the eras and Bucky watches as Tony accepts Natasha’s hand, four songs in, both of them moving with the modern waltz and Natasha’s summer dress swishing in the evening breeze.

Bucky thinks he’s a lucky guy to be a part of all this.

“You happy, Buck?” Steve asks, and when Bucky turns to look at him, he sees a soft look on Steve’s face, fond and warm.

“I’m good, yeah.” Bucky blinks at the look. “What?”

“I’m looking at you.” Steve sounds a little breathless, throat bobbing as he swallows past something. “You’re – you’re more comfortable with yourself now. And I’m glad. I’m really, _really_ _glad_ you’re back.”

Bucky looks at his hands and feels his lips twitch into a small smile briefly. He can’t say he’s better, can’t say he’s all right a hundred percent. Bucky had lost count with the amount of times he had bolted up from bed drenched in sweat, thinking of drowning in the blood of his victims in pitch black darkness, his cries and struggles nothing but an everlasting echo. He can’t say he doesn’t hear their words and struggles, or how he develops some sort of paranoia that the sequence of coded words would somehow just work again. Bucky doesn’t think he’ll ever stop feeling like a ticking bomb, you don’t just recover from something like that.

But he looks up and sees Tony stand, catches his gaze and feels something warm spread in his chest. And in just that brief second when their gazes hold, Bucky believes he’s okay.

Bucky also realizes what a _goner_ he truly is.

He is drawn to Tony like a moth to a flame and the way Tony’s eyes widen just a fraction, the way he looks like he can’t believe what’s before him, how his breath pauses for just the briefest second, Bucky would like to think that Tony feels it too. They’re like opposite ends of the magnet, drawn to each other no matter how much resistance they put between them, like how Tony’s gaze flickers away, how he sways and spins Natasha around once, giving Bucky his back. Bucky allows his mind to wander, allows himself that comfort, allows it to go places he only goes to when he’s alone and in the dark, when he wakes up shaking at night, trying to control his panicked breathing. On those nights, after a splash of cold water to his sweaty and heated face, he’d close his eyes, fingers gripping the sink and think of those two nights in Washington. He’d think of Tony’s lips against his and the arch of his back against the cool metal of his then-bionic arm, or how his eyelashes curl against his cheek when he’s asleep, or how Tony seems to favor lying on his left rather than his right. He would think of the unguarded sleepy smile; Tony probably doesn’t even know he’s smiling to begin with. Bucky would remember the sound of his laugh, how ridiculously _dorky_ it is and how it would rob him of breath, how it made him so boyishly handsome – god, he’s beautiful, Bucky would think, and when he opens his eyes and looks in the mirror, he’d be calmer, or at least he’d be calm enough to get back in bed, curl on his left and throw an arm over his second pillow. On those nights, he’d pretend he’s not alone.

On those nights, more often than not, Bucky would feel just how much he misses Tony.

Or just how much he truly _needs_ him.

Steve’s fingers are warm against his shoulder, _almost_ startling Bucky out of his own thoughts, along with Steve’s amused chuckles. The bench creaks when Steve stands. “ _Oh_ Buck…”

“What?” Bucky asks, forcing himself to look away from Tony’s backside and meet the light dancing over the surfaces of Steve’s eyes. “ _What_?” Steve gives his shoulder a warm squeeze before he pats it and walks towards the group across the lawn, weaving through the bodies slowing down to a lazy sway and tapping Tony on the shoulder. Bucky watches as Tony takes a step back from Natasha, nods and pats Steve on the back. There is a brief exchange, and Bucky can see Tony being a smartass when Steve offers to take him for a spin. The joke passes and Natasha presses a kiss to Tony’s cheek. Tony leaves them to their friendly lazy sway and heads into the kitchen.

Bucky doesn’t think twice and gets up to follow.

He finds Tony drying his hands with a paper towel by the kitchen sink, watching the dancing going on beyond the window stretching on one wall of the kitchen. There is a faraway look in Tony’s gaze that makes Bucky hesitate to disturb his thoughts for a moment.

“Like what you see?” Tony asks, blinking as their gazes lock on the glass reflection of the kitchen window.

“Always.” Bucky answers, honest and open like he always is when he’s around Tony, and feels a little bolder when he sees the color spike over the curves of Tony’s ears. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, balling up the paper-towel and turning to face him completely, lower back leaning against the edge of the sink. The wad of paper flies and lands into the wastebasket in the corner.

“Saw the car outside.” Bucky says, taking a step in and until the island is the only thing between him and Tony. “That the one in your workshop?”

“Fully restored. Customized engine. 1200 horsepower.” Tony cocks an eyebrow, holding his gaze and crossing his arms across his chest. “Yours truly.”

“Is that so?” Bucky asks, pressing his hands on the cool surface of the island, metal-gauntlet encased fingers and flesh ones spreading out, before he grips the edge.

“I had inspiration.” Tony shrugs, looking away. “It’s a car out of its time, broken and beaten down, destroyed from within. Took a while but nothing a little TLC and time can’t fix.”

There is a _surge_ of something that feels like warm electricity igniting heat all over as Bucky side steps around the island. “Oh? Sounds like a hell of an inspiration. Car looks _great_.”

“Drives real well too.” Tony says, ducking his head and trying to smother what looks like a grin.

“Won’t judge till I feel it under my hands. I mean, that is, if you don’t mind me taking it for a ride.” Bucky shrugs, lower back pressing against the island; Tony is an arm’s length away from him and even with over a feet between them, the familiar scent of musk and tea tree fills Bucky’s lungs with intimate familiarity that almost leaves him reeling. Bucky’s throat goes dry and not for the first time that day – Tony looks _great_ , put together, groomed and not looking as terrible as Bucky remembers weeks ago. They haven’t had the time to talk with Bucky being busy with handovers and one orientation after the other. It’s all Bucky can do to not rake his gaze down the column of Tony’s throat, and the slight and not as prominent jut of his collarbone peeking from his v-neck graphic-t-shirt.

(It’s like staring into the sun.)

“Break it, pay for it.” Tony warns, unfurling the cross of his arms, palms coming to rest on the edge of the sink counter. “I put in a lot of effort in that.”

“Don’t worry; I’m careful.” Bucky murmurs and forces the swell of _something_ , the need to take a step back out of paranoia, out of fear and hesitation back. “You look better.”

“Forced vacations apparently work.” Tony shrugs. “You don’t look so bad either. Politics doesn’t look like it’s wearing you down.” Tony pauses for a beat. “Yet.”

Bucky huffs an amused breath, looking away and staring at both of their sneakers. “It has its perks. Things get done a lot faster than normal; I am told being the Winter Soldier comes with its intimidating factors.”

“Yeah, well, people only see what they want to see. They don’t know that you’re a mushy centered donut.” Tony snorts.

Tony’s fingers start to tap, and Bucky reads it as both a mix of nervousness and impatience; Tony is used to moving too fast, used to being so incredibly busy that this is probably the first time Bucky is seeing Tony pause and stand so still. And like stars, Bucky steps forward, slow and measured, getting into Tony’s space, hands pressing on the edge of the counter on either of Tony’s side. Tony had ample time to step away, to close off and be guarded; he doesn’t. This close, Bucky is hit with the strong scent of Tony’s shampoo, mixed in with the day’s activities and heat of the summer, warm and ridiculously intoxicating. This close, Bucky can see flecks of amber in the dark brown depths of Tony’s eyes when he looks up to meet his gaze, he can see Tony’s lips press down briefly as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. This close, as Bucky closes his eyes, he can hear Tony’s heartbeat pick up its pace, his own matching it every step of the way.

They’re both nervous, standing before each other, drawn so close with nothing but mere inches between them.

“God, you’re beautiful.” Bucky says, breathless and so _honest._ “You’re all I wanna look at. You walk into a place and you just…” Bucky loses words, unsure of how to even describe _any_ of whatever it is that tossing and turning and banging against his ribcage.

And Tony’s cheeks colors just the slightest bit, as his lips part and his teeth peek out when he tries to push down the embarrassment and bashfulness. It is so ridiculously vulnerable, something hidden so deep under all his Iron and armor, that Bucky can’t get enough of it.

“Do I take your breath away, soldier?” Tony asks, flirty tenors dripping from the words; even when his voice sounds confident and so sure of itself, Tony looks anything but.

“ _Yes_ ,” Bucky says, fingers sliding off the counter and coming onto Tony’s hips. It’s quick and almost effortless, how Bucky lifts Tony off the ground, sitting him on the counter so he can lean closer. Bucky puts himself in a vulnerable position too, right underneath Tony, neck craned up and chin almost touching Tony’s chest. Tony is looking down at him, unmoving and looking nervous, unsure, shy, _hesitating_. “ _Always_.” Bucky answers as the world around him fades until there’s nothing except himself and Tony looking down at him. “Do you have _any_ idea just _what_ you _do_ to me?”

Tony’s head tilts to the side, a last show of bravado and nonchalance; Bucky sees past it. He’s looking at how blown wide open Tony’s pupils are, listening to how his heart is beating rapidly under his rib cage. “Not a clue.”

“You’re the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.” Bucky says, forearms pressing flat against the counter, palms flat against cool steel and marble. “I’m never going to be okay. You know that. And when I’m not – when I wake up and I hear them, I remember them, when I can’t tell up from down, what’s real and what’s not, everything that has happened, I think of you.” Bucky closes his eyes for a moment, ducking his head. When he opens his eyes, he is staring at the weave of denim fabric on Tony’s leg. “I think of you and how you work. I think of how you look like when you’re concentrating on a design, or how you look like when you’re thinking and drinking coffee. I think of when you’re being a smart-ass or how you look like when you walk into the room, or how you sound like when you _laugh_. I think of what you taste like, your warmth, the smell of your fancy-ass shampoo. I think of how you look like when you’re stuffing your goddamn face with a massive turkey sandwich and donut after donut…” Bucky licks his lips, pausing in his words, his outright confession because this is him laying out his heart on the ground. “When I think of you, I _know_ I’ll be okay. I feel a little braver, brave enough to go back to bed and try to sleep a few more hours like I _should_. When I think of you, you make me feel _better,_ not so hopeless, maybe not as lost. I wanna try things, new things, believe in a future that I had reservations about. When I think of you, I feel like I can have more faith. That everything can be okay, will be okay. You’re all I wanna look at, you’re all I wanna think about.” Bucky looks up and sees Tony looking at him a little wide-eyed, breathing slow through his nose, completely off guard. “ _That’s_ what you _do_ to me.” Bucky swallows and just to break the ice a little further, he adds, “Steve thinks it’s cute.”

“I’m not much, James…” Tony says, a poor warning; Bucky sees it as an offering for him to retract and move back, to not pursue what Tony thinks are the sandy and broken remains of a man who had once been whole, innocence lost far too early and far too quick.

“No. You’re _everything_.” Bucky corrects, words a soft whisper, something to be kept between. Tony’s hand is warm against his neck, a little clammy from all the nerves. “I’d like to kiss you if that’s okay…”

“You mushy donut…” Tony mutters, and even manages to roll his eyes.

Kissing Tony is like a breath Bucky has been starved off. He leans up as Tony leans down, their lips pressing and Tony’s mouth opening so easily for him. The music in the background fades, just as all the rest of the noise, the mess around the kitchen, the smell of the leftover food in their containers – there is nothing except the warm feel of Tony’s hands against neck and shoulder, the taste of beer and sweet tea lingering around the tips of Tony’s tongue, and that incredibly heady scent of must and tea tree. They’re pressed flushed against each other, drawn to each other, with no space between them, the warmth and heat of Tony’s thighs pressing against Bucky’s sides – and god, he’d keep doing this, I’d kiss you all day and all night, forever if I’d have that. I’d wake up to you, feel you, just look at you and the world can burn for all I care as long as I have this and I have you.

The crash and clatter makes the brush of their lips and tongue segue to a stop, and Peter stuttering and apologizing repeatedly, over and over again, stumbling back and knocking another vase that gets more attention. Bucky feels Tony smile against his lips, and he trails a hot and open mouthed kiss down the side of Tony’s jaw, lips pressing against Tony’s neck like how he’d been _wanting_ to do _all goddamn day_ , just as the rush of footsteps comes in and the crunch of glass, porcelain and a chair knocking over fills the room.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry Mister Stark, Colonel Rhodes, I broken your vase – and the wine flutes – oh god, all the flutes – I’m so sorry, I just, I mean I was walking in and Mister Stark and Sergeant Barnes – oh man, May – May, please help me!”

“Really? My kitchen?” Rhodey asks, hands on his hips.

Clint _whistles_ , long and not as loud considering the sleeping child upstairs.

But it does its job and breaks the ice.

“Ruining the moment, Pete.” Tony says, as he slides down the counter top to get on his feet. Bucky is far too _pleased_ to notice that it takes a few seconds for Tony to steady himself just the slightest bit.

“I’m so, so sorry Mister Stark!” Peter is _flushed_ , to the roots of his hair.

Bucky’s reflexes are quick when he catches the keys Tony tosses in his direction. “You’re driving.” Tony murmurs as he brushes past him and follows Rhodey out. Bucky looks at the keys, sees they’re for the beauty parked outside and feels like his heart wants to punch its way out of his chest.

When he looks up, Steve is _smiling_ at him.

“Try _not_ to get _too_ distracted.” Steve warns, unfolding his arms and pushing away from the door frame as he takes the brooms Carol hands over and passes one to Peter, the other to Bucky.

Bucky catches a glance of Tony chatting away with Rhodey, held prisoner under the hold Rhodey had around his shoulders. Tony is smiling though, broad and wide and unguarded, still flushed from their shared kiss and Bucky as always, is unable to look away. Bucky doesn’t even realize he’s _staring_ and leaning against the broom handle for far too long until he feels his leg being clocked by Steve’s broom, a _pointed_ look on his face.

“Sorry,” Bucky murmurs and immediately starts sweeping up the glass.  
  


TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very slice of life-y , this chapter is.
> 
> But we are approaching the end of our adventure. I have been swamped, was involved with some travelling. Then I was distracted by IronBat and I just refuse to start a new project ~~or continue with a new one since I already started one ugh~~ until I wrap this up.
> 
> But yes, UGH MUSHY DONUT!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Much love! I mean to respond to every review, i really do! I hope you all know your words mean much to me and are encouraging. Thank you for giving my stories a chance :)


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own BETA. I am sure that despite 100 reads, I have missed a lot of DUH-SO-OBVIOUS typos.
> 
> **END CREDIT SCENE IS AT THE BOTTOM! PLEASE READ BEYOND "FIN" ;)**

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”   
― [ **Victor Hugo**](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13661.Victor_Hugo), [ **Les Misérables**](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3208463)

  
Tony’s world, Bucky discovers, is not as vast as the ocean like how the world perceived it to be, how most of them have come to see it from the outside.

Tony’s world is in fact as small as a fishbowl one wins at a town fair.

Tony had made him a part of that little world, where there isn’t much to see, Bucky thinks, other than the endless rooms in the manor that he is too familiar with, and the bots that wander to maintain order and function. His duties as to Stark Industries and Director to SHIELD is nothing but countless back and forth, formal communication and liaising, endless formalities and a lot of arguing. Bucky can see trust amongst his peers, can see how Tony is respected and how he keeps tight reigns on the ships he handles. Tony does he job extremely well, and for that, people follow him as a leader. Tony is no Steve Rogers, and there had been times when Bucky had butted heads with him, but he is no pushover either.

Bucky knows he watches everyone’s backs.

Beyond his work, there is Pepper and Happy and Rhodey’s family. Nothing but a handful people, each one connected to him and yet separate.

Once upon a time, perhaps, Pepper would have been the tie that had bound Tony, had held him together. Once upon time, she had been his entire world.

And once upon time, the Avengers might have been that too.

But Tony’s world now is so small and is nothing but a stretch of ash and tombstone, with perhaps that distant shade of green on the yonder. Bucky sees this every night he spends within the walls of Stark manor, when he jerks awake because Tony jerks away, because Tony brings a hand to his chest and curls into a defensive brace position, because Tony shudders at the feel of Bucky’s hands on him, and apologizes for being afraid of him when he shouldn’t be. Those nights are the most painful, when Bucky can feel the quake under both his flesh hands, when he sees the apology in those eyes, when he hears the apology roll past trembling lips, because he sees it all over Tony’s face, how afraid he is that the fist of the winter solider is in his chest, yanking out the thing that keeps him alive.

Then there are the nights when Bucky jerks back from the fist connecting with the middle of his face, when it sends him back reeling and shatters the reality of a nightmare that had him strapped to a chair _fighting_ what he doesn’t want to be turned to. Those nights, Bucky would recoil so hard and rush for the connecting bathroom, falling to his knees and vomiting their dinner from the night before, on his own with nothing but his frustration and the wretched sobs that leave him when he sees the bruises forming around the column of Tony’s throat. Tony who says nothing, Tony who remains silent and presses a cold towel to his temple, and Tony, despite the goosebumps all over his skin, and the fear in his eyes, would still sit there on the tiles with him, and wrap his arms around him until the shakes stops.

The bruises _always_ fade before the sun rises.

Bucky loses count on how many times he had hurt Tony this way, so lost in his mind to memories he wishes he no longer had.

He loses count how many times the thought of him not being good enough for him crosses his mind. He waits and waits, like a dog waiting for scraps, to be turned away, every night when he falls asleep pressing lips to the back of Tony’s neck, he waits.

And takes it one day at a time.

(He’ll get sick of you, you know? Or you’ll just kill him one day.)

Bucky also loses track of how many days he had not returned to his own apartment, when most of his things is scattered all around the manor. He tells himself he should go home, when the word home feels so empty. He should go before Tony tells him to go.

That day doesn’t come.

But what comes instead, is a reeling invitation one winter’s morning, on the sixteenth of December. Tony asks him, looking worn and run down to the bone still dressed in the suit from the day before, if he’d like to come with. Bucky remembers what it had felt like, to have his heart in his throat, and from the moment he comes to stand before two large tombstones, when he looks away from the names and at the small sad smile lingering around the edges of Tony’s lips, Bucky _knows_ that he _is_ Tony’s world now.

That he had become his _everything_ , too.

Bucky cannot remember _weeping_ the way he had in that moment, feeling like he does not deserve it, does not deserve this kindness, this ridiculously unparalleled love, when he still strangles Tony in his sleep or when he still throws him off the sheets sometimes in a knee-jerk reaction.

That night, they fly to the Maldives and Tony shows him the old and discolored world he had loved once upon a time and had also abandoned for too long. Lankanfushi is beautiful, Tony’s home even more so, and god, it never ceases to hit Bucky between the eyes how Tony’s world truly is so, so small.

And so, _so_ quiet with nothing but the dead.

Tony had friends but he did not have anything for _himself_.

Not anymore, anyway.

“I’m braver around you too, you know? I want you to know that.” Tony says, swallowing as he stares at the star-dotted sky that feels only within arm’s reach, the waves brushing against the wood and kissing the shoreline just some feet away. “I haven’t been to my parents’ grave since I put them in the ground. I never came back here either. Maybe a part of me didn’t want to come back alone, you know?”

When Tony looks at him, Bucky thinks he knows what love truly means.

“You never have to.” Bucky says, surprising himself and yet feeling like the bravest man on earth. “For however long you want me, or _need_ me, I’m here for you. Until the end of the line…”

And when Tony _smiles_ at him, Bucky sees all the good that is still worth fighting for.

  
FIN

 

****AFTER CREDIT SCENE****

Bucky is tossing the wrapper of his hot dog into the garbage bin, reaching up to adjust his tie as he follows in Steve and Natasha’s footsteps. The streets of New York is crowded with employees and businessmen and women rushing about at lunch-break. Bucky is hurrying across the street and cutting through crowd when he sees Natasha duck into a crowded bakery and slows to a halt when a few feet away. He sees Steve answering a phone call, sees him get into some sort of heated argument, just as a gleam beyond a shop window catches Bucky’s eye.

It’s nothing more than a silver band, almost plain in its simplicity. The price tag isn’t daunting either but Bucky finds himself _staring_ at it. Bucky loses his thought as he realizes how it looks about the same size as Tony’s left ring finger, would probably sit on that finger rather nicely too.

And startles when he feels a hand clap on his shoulder and Steve _looking_ at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Something you wanna tell me, buddy?”

“No.” Bucky says, swallowing past the sudden hammering in his chest. He turns around and sees Natasha step out of the bakery, a bag in hand. “Let’s go.” He says, and walks away from the shop, shaking the thought away.

Bucky would like to say it’s the last time he walks past that shop and stares at the window.

It isn’t.

****END SCENE****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS DONE AND DONE AND I AM SO DONE OMG FINISHED!
> 
> Guys, this fic and story-line has been a goddamn journey for over a year! Thank you, thank you so much for sticking with me this long! Because of this, WinterIron has forever a soft spot in my heart. I will forever ship them now no thanks to this accidental discovery on said journey.
> 
> Thank you so much again and hope to see you around!
> 
> ~~FEEL FREE TO ASSUME WHAT HAPPENS POST-CREDIT SCENES. HAHA!~~

**Author's Note:**

> Now let's see what kind of horrid monster this story will morph into. I am... excited? Worried? Whaaaaaaat?


End file.
